The Algernon Expeditions: The Rainbow Hunters

Author's notes

Dear Reader,

 
Before you lies another report on the expeditions of the Tennant family and certain menbers of Algernon University's faculty including, as it happens, myself. Like the ones before, it combines science with madness, sex, and violence, and must therefore fulfill all the needs of even the most demanding audience.

 
The cover illustration was once again drawn by Ms. Lindsey Batdorf (http://lindseybatdorf.com) and the cover page was laid out by Ms. Corinne Pritchard (https://www.simplyunderstand.com/). Please visit their, I believe it's called 'web sites' and marvel at their talent.

 
Once more, some of the people in these stories may seem familiar to the astute reader. This is simply a manifestation of convergent evolution, and while there may be some superficial similarities, let me assure you that the people in these tales are distinct from those you may be reminded of. Whoever those may be.

 
These stories are provided to you completely gratis, but I claim the right to be designated the chronicler and writer of them. If you acquired these stories for a fee, then you, dear Reader, have been had. You may find this and other Algernon stories at: http://algernonexpeditions.wordpress.com.

 
Please be so good as to enjoy these stories.

 
Yours as ever,

Prof. Dr. Alan Wadcroft of Algernon University, Ipswich, England.

 
- Previously by this author

 
The Mysterious Ore

The Fall Of Eldorado

Fire From The Gods

 

Margaret Enderby: What we did on our holidays

Counting heads - View of the Eiffel Tower - All the fashion - Enemies in every shadow

 

---

 

It is three weeks since Dr. Pike left for America, to find news of our friends on board the airship Lady I, believed to have gone down with all hands Goodness only knows where. Captain Tennant - Philip - sent us back to Algernon University, because he knew that was precisely what might happen. It still seems unreal to me that Philip, Carl, Fatin and little Raage, Brenda, and especially Alexandra, so large, so real, so full of life, may be dead. I am still expecting the word that their airship has been spotted over the University bell tower, and that she'll be in in a minute for a few cups of tea or maybe a Gin and Tonic. And they still may. The Tennants have overcome hardships and the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. It does not seem right that they are simply gone. I can believe it no more than I can believe that gravity has stopped working. It makes me feel so helpless. All I can do is sit, and think, and wait for returning feet and voices at the door.

 

Alan, Prof. Wadcroft I should say, has asked me to write up my part of the expedition report. It will give me something to do. Looking back on it, it almost seems like a bizarre kind of holiday. We have been to many places, seen many things.

 

Let me tell you what we did on our holidays.

 

-- Prof. Dr. Margaret Enderby, expedition report

 

---

 
I woke up to the low drone of Lady I's engines, as she moved through the clouds towards Paris. A small light was on in my cabin, and Miss Felicia was choosing her outfit for the day, a simple matter because they only differed in a detail or two.

"Good morning, Miss Sunderland." I pulled open the curtain over the porthole to the soft early morning light.

"Good morning, Professor," she said, and pulled on a white shirt over a blue skirt. She pulled a hairbrush through her hair a few times, bound it up in a ponytail. "Won't be a minute."

"Take your time," I said. At my age, the apparatus needs a little more time to set itself in motion.

Miss Felicia made herself presentable, then hopped out of the door with a brief 'See you at breakfast'. I stuck my feet out of bed, and raised myself. I walked to the mirror and looked at my shoulder. Before we left, Dr. Bernhardt had removed the stitches, but the scar would probably never heal completely. I closed my eyes a moment, remembering, then got out of my nightgown and into my adventuring outfit for civilised places. A plaited skirt, a yellow blouse, and practical flat shoes.

I made my way to the mess hall. Captain Philip Tennant, cup of xocolatl in hand, sat at the head of the table, ruling this vessel with an iron leg, made for him by Algernon University's best civil engineer, who was sitting next to Miss Felicia, looking like a giant out of a fairytale. He was working his way through his breakfast, starting with the eggs to make room for cutting the bacon, then the sausages, the baked beans in tomato sauce, and finally the toast, which he used to wipe up the organic matter, leaving his plate completely empty. This was one ritual of many, and he worked through them with the precision of a machine.

"Margaret," said Philip. "How are you today?"

"Fine, fine," I said. "It's a lovely morning isn't it Alexandra?"

Alexandra, Philip's daughter, looked up from staring into her cup of tea. Alexandra's morning cup no longer included drops of morphia. Her injuries, suffered at the same hands as mine, were much more grave, and it had taken the combined efforts of Andrew, a specialist doctor from the Indies, and our own medical staff to restore her. She could now walk, even run a little, but she was still nowhere near her old self.

Alexandra reached for the teapot. "Tea?"

Carl Tennant, Alexandra's brother, slid a tea mug across the table. Alexandra filled it, and I added a splash of milk.

There was a splutter. Fatin, Carl's wife, pointed at a tea towel, and Carl handed it to her so she could wipe milk off their little son Raage's brown face.

"Hungry little boy," said Fatin, and put him back on her breast. "You will grow all round and have to roll everywhere instead of walking."

Raage made no comment and continued suckling. Mummy's silly jokes were not as important as feeding. Raage's name means 'he who delayed at birth'. Poor Fatin had spent a full night and day giving birth to him, with only herbal medicine and the comfort of her tribeswomen to ease her pain. And smiled afterwards.

I helped myself to a plate of eggs, bacon, a sausage or two, and some fresh toast. Carl finished his own breakfast, cut a bread roll, put in two slices of bacon, and went for'ard to take a turn at the helm.

A few minutes later, Miss Brenda Lee walked in and sat down at the table next to Andrew. She was the last to join Lady I's crew in a career that started on the streets of New Amsterdam, went on to the American Marines, from there to being a henchman in Klemm's Jäger. After carrying a badly hurt Alexandra to safety on her strong shoulders, she had joined Tennant Airborne Scientific Transport and Expedition Company as a 'cabin boy and dogsbody'.

"Right. Who has eaten all the scrambled eggs?"

Alexandra wordlessly pushed the bowl over to her, and Miss Lee loaded her plate.

"Thank you. Oh Andrew?" She looked up to him with large brown eyes. "Pass me the brown sauce please?"

Andrew looked at Miss Lee, then at the bottle. He picked it up carefully and placed it on a line through the centre of her plate, perpendicular to the edge of the table, one and a half times the radius of the plate away.

"Thank you Andrew," she said, touching his big hand with a fingertip.

Andrew frowned, pulled back his hand. On Andrew's other side, Miss Felicia turned her eyes to the heavens. I had watched these little pantomimes the last few days. Was Miss Lee really attracted to Andrew? Did she just do this to annoy Miss Felicia? Or were these both pleasures to be enjoyed separately?

I finished my breakfast, offered to help with the plates, was shooed away. I walked to the bridge to find Alan peering through one of the telescopes.

"What ho Wadcroft! England is the other way, you know?"

Alan didn't move a muscle. "I am observing some geological features of France. They are extraordinarily dull here."

"The excitement never ends for a Geologist."

"Over there you can see the boundary between the Cretaceous and the Tertiary formations. Note the difference in coloration."

"Good lord!" I fanned myself. "I think I'll need a lie-down."

Alan grinned back at me over his shoulder. "Calcium deposits are not likely to shoot at us. Sometime soon, we may be longing for a nice dull moment."

"Not me." Miss Lee walked down the steps to the front of the bridge. "I happen to be a blood-crazed death dealing warrior. I wake up every day hoping for a chance to dismember my enemies and defile their civilisations."

"Nice weather for it," said Alan.

"Everyone needs a hobby," I added.

 

---

 
We were drawing near to Paris, and through the telescopes, we could already see her lights reflected against the clouds. As I looked back, it warmed my heart to see Alexandra standing at the helm, when only a few short months ago, it was not sure at all whether she would be standing at all. I watched her for a few moments, until she noticed me and her serious expression turned into a quick smile. She turned her eyes back to the French skies and the other airships coming and going.

At the other telescope, Carl and Fatin were standing cheek to cheek, each using one of the eyepieces. His hand was on her waist, and they were talking softly in Fatin's Central African language.

Philip walked onto the bridge to the Captain's chair, a comfortable swivel chair in front of the helm controls. Before sitting down, he looked to see if Stranger, our new and official Ship's Cat, was not lying on it. Stranger's royal prerogative was to lie down on any flat surface of her choosing. Philip had once sat down on his chair to furious howls, and sharp claws to the Captain's Buttocks. Today, Stranger was in the galley. Miss Lee had made a bed for her out of an old crate and a pillow, and put it next to the Aga oven that heats and feeds us all. Stranger looked at it for one moment, then lay down next to it. Miss Lee picked her up and dropped her on the pillow. Stranger gave her one disgusted look, then retreated to a cabin and lay down on a real bed instead, and rightly so. Can't let the plebs forget who is in charge.

Fatin looked back at us from the front telescope.

"We can see the tower!"

"Good to know it's still upright." Alexandra adjusted some wheels behind her, and Lady I started to descend.

"Shall we go and have dinner there?" said Carl. "For old times' sake?"

"Don't expect me to climb up the rafters this time," said Alexandra.

Philip leaned back in his chair to look at her. "You have legs of steel. You could leap onto the top of the tower in a single bound. Do not embarrass Mr. Parsons."

Andrew, who was sitting in one of the observation chairs, stirred, frowned. "I have not implemented any functions to augment jumping. That was not in the specifications."

Miss Felicia shot Philip a dark look. "The Captain is joking, Andrew."

Andrew looked at Miss Felicia, nodded, went back to staring out of the window. Andrew was never one for idle chatter, but since the incident at the Battle of Algernon, he had withdrawn even further into himself. Now and then, one of us tried to draw him into a conversation, but he didn't even seem to notice it when you talked to him. The only thing that would reliably get him to pay attention is talking a load of nonsense about one of his creations. Alexandra's knees to name two. Miss Felicia never even tried. She said Andrew was thinking his way through the events.

In the Battle, one of the scallywags had fired a gun at him. Andrew was smelting at the time, in full protective gear, and the bullet had bounced off. But such a breach of Rifle Club Rules could not be born, and Andrew had taken the man's gun away from him and thrown him across the room with such force that he'd collapsed in a crumpled heap, never to get up again. Then, realising what he'd done, he'd collapsed into a desperate little puddle. To some people, it was surprising that Andrew could get angry, that he had any emotion at all. But not Miss Felicia.

She had allowed us to take him away with us once before, but this time, with his mind in turmoil underneath his iron mask of a face, she had insisted that she come with us. She had also insisted on at least a full day and night in Paris.

"Final approach, people," said Alexandra. "Carl, Brenda, to the mooring lines. Captain to the Aldis light. Altitude now eight hundred foot and descending."

 

---

 
We got to Orly airport, and made fast to the mooring poles. Miss Felicia left Andrew at his workbench in the cargo hold with Carl to watch over him. She wandered over to me and casually suggested a shopping trip in Paris' couture area. I had seen her poring over maps of the area, drawings of dresses, reviews in French illustrées. I was easily convinced. An off-the-shoulder dress would be just the thing since someone had cut a bit off my shoulder. Together, we recruited first Fatin, who put Raage in a sling and stepped up, then Alexandra, who needed a little more persuasion, but eventually grudgingly agreed to come. Last was Miss Brenda Lee, who only scowled at us.

"Do I look like the type for pretty dresses?"

"They won't let you into a respectable restaurant wearing..." Felicia waved a hand at her. "That."

Miss Lee, dressed in very practical khaki trousers and a sleeveless vest to show the tattoos on her arms, flexed her muscles at Felicia. "This is the kit I wear when I want to get into places whether they'll let me or not."

"Maybe," said Felicia, "but then they won't cook canard a l'orange for you."

"I've just turned vegetarian anyway."

"Oi short stuff," said Alexandra. "They roped me in, so you're coming too."

"Your problem." Miss Lee crossed her arms. She was not interested in pansy little dresses, no doubt with flowers on. None of the things would have deep enough pockets for ammunition anyway.

"Miss Lee?" I said, malice in my heart, "There may be some fighting involved. Prometheus is still on the prowl in Paris. We are all defenceless women and children."

She stared at me. I looked back at her. I could see in her eyes that I had her, and she knew it. I would not of course think any worse of her if she stayed back safe aboard Lady I, leaving us to brave the wild streets of Paris alone. Her courage and dedication were not in doubt.

She shook her head.

"I'll get you for this," she said.

 
From the airport to the fashion house that was the object of Miss Felicia's pilgrimage, was about ten miles, so we got on one of the airport carriages to take us to the Arc de Triomphe. From there it would be a short walk to Maison Madeleine Vionnet, a dressmaker, oh pardon my French, a couturier of great fame. Miss Felicia had taken half her life's savings out of the bank and wasn't planning to return with any of it. Miss Felicia Sunderland, the very picture of responsibility, paragon of common sense, was planning to do something profoundly, deliciously stupid, and to enjoy every last crumb of it.

I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

The day was warm and sunny, and Paris was steaming with people. Miss Felicia, well prepared with maps and addresses, led us along the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, where street artists were out in force painting caricatures of passers-by for a few francs, and acrobats showed their skills. As required by law, men with harmonicas were on every street corner, making a valiant attempt to drown out the noise of traffic and people.

We walked in a close group, with a very talkative Miss Felicia and a quiet Alexandra in front. Fatin and I were in the middle and Miss Lee took up the rear. She openly wore a pistol in a holster on her hip. Alexandra had hers concealed under her jacket. It was a grim reminder that despite the cheerful mood, we were not on a holiday. I could see Alexandra looking from shadow to shadow, ready for trouble. Brenda kept moving so that she was between our little group and any door, window, or alleyway. I turned to Fatin, who was fussing with Raage a bit as she walked.

"Little one all right?" I said, just to say something.

Raage said a few nonsense words and giggled.

"Well sorry for talking over you young man," I said.

Fatin grinned, white teeth showing in her dark face. "He is out with all the women. He is a happy boy." She moved aside for Brenda who put herself between us and the door to a boucherie-charcuterie. Her eyes turned back to me, her smile replaced with a quiet serious expression. "We are in a jungle, yes?"

I looked at the street, people moving, talking, sometimes looking curiously at our little group of women, one of us the only dark face in the entire street except for some street vendors selling beads and bracelets, one of us heavily muscled with dark tattoos peeking out from under her sleeves, one of us coldly sizing up anyone who came within pistol range.

"I suppose we are," I said.

 
"Is that the Rue George the Fifth?" Miss Felicia squinted at the street sign. "Ah. So it is. This way please."

Alexandra looked over her shoulder at us. "The Frogs name their streets after our kings?"

"Apparently so," I said. "I suppose we're lucky they didn't pick George the Third."

"On ne parle pas avec les arbres," said Alexandra.

"Warum sprichst du ausländish?" said Miss Lee, having picked up German while serving with Klemm's Jäger.

Fatin added something in her own tongue, with those characteristic lateral clicks found only in African languages.

"Well aren't we a polyglot gathering," said Miss Felicia. "Here's the Rue Francois le Premier. Just a bit further along."

"French kings just aren't as funny as English ones," said Alexandra.

 
It was only a little further on. Miss Felicia turned round, facing a rather straight up-and-down building with an ornamented balustrade half way up, and a mascaron of a lion's head above the door. The half-naked clochard enjoying an afternoon nap a few doors away added to the picturesque charm of the scene. Miss Felicia rubbed her hands in a mixture of reverence, excitement, and what I can only call pure lust.

"Open Sesame," she said, and pushed open the door.

We walked into a large showroom with dresses on mannequins. There were a few customers about the place, their voices dampened by the cloth all round. One of the salesgirls flitted towards us with a polite smile. She took one look at Miss Felicia and recognised us for what we were.

"Good afternoon, Ladies," she said, in slightly accented but otherwise impeccable English. "How may I help you?"

"I would like two dresses please," said Miss Felicia. "One for day-to-day wear, one for maximum..." She searched for a word.

"Je ne sais quois." The shop lady allowed herself a little shimmer of a smile.

"Exactly," said Miss Felicia, satisfied.

I could see the shop lady giving Miss Felicia the once-over, looking from her reddish brown hair, friendly face, modest figure, slender legs, down to her feet. In her mind she was stripping away her English schoolmistress' tweed, and replacing it with fabrics of a less coarse nature. She led Miss Felicia to a stand, pulled down one fabric, held it up to her, immediately pulled it away. The pale yellow obviously clashed with her pale skin. She replaced it with a fiery red, pulled that away as well, then held up a grass green. She gave Miss Felicia a questioning look. Miss Felicia touched the fabric with a reverend finger.

"This is our new vert vernal, inspired by the freshly growing grass of Spring, which we use in our bias cut, at an angle to the warp and weft. This gives it an elasticity that allows us to avoid body-shaping features such as corsets and allows us to bring out the natural beauty of your figure."

At this point, Miss Brenda Lee lost her interest in couture and started wandering about the place. She walked up to a mannequin.

"Who're you looking at?" She moved her face closer. "Are you looking at me?"

Another shop girl was hovering in the shadows, looking at Miss Lee with a slightly worried look on her face, torn between asking her if she could help her, or hiding.

I gave her a smile. "It's all good. She is friendly."

"Je m'excuse. Je ne parle pas Anglais."

Alexandra, who had been watching Miss Felicia starting her metamorphosis, turned round. "Pas mechant. Mange tout. Aime bien les enfants."

Miss Lee looked round with a little smirk on her face, walked back to us. "What are you telling the frog lady about me?"

"Not vicious, will eat anything, loves children."

Miss Lee pointed her finger between Alexandra's eyes. "Are you trying to sell me to her?"

As her sleeve rose up a little, the shop girl took a short breath. She pointed at Miss Lee's arm. "Please? Puis-je voir ca?"

Illustrated people, especially if their tattoos are large like Miss Lee's, have to get used to people staring at them. To be fair, if not to be looked at, what are they there for? I'm sure they enjoy the attention really. Miss Lee sighed, pulled up her sleeve. The shop girl moved her finger from one picture to the next.

"Tethys. Dione. Rhea. Titan." She looked at Miss Lee with shining eyes. "Les lunes de Saturne. C'est merveilleux!"

"Uh... thank you." Miss Lee was taken aback a little.

Her new friend smiled at her. "Vous n'aimez pas ces jupes ci, non? Veuillez attendre."

She walked over to her colleague. "Mathilde? Le clé de la collection spéciale?"

Alexandra chuckled. "She's getting you the key to the special collection."

"Special collection? What's that?"

"Usually the more daring and revealing kind," I said.

"Leather and whips and studded collars," added Alexandra.

"I think she likes you," I said.

We all watched as Madame Mathilde pulled a key on a chain out of her blouse and handed it to our girl. She came bounding back to us. "Suivez moi, s'il vous plait. Je m'appelle Sylvie et je vous aidera ce matin."

"Uh..." Miss Lee looked at us. "I don't speak French."

"The language of Love is universal," said Alexandra.

"What, she's gonna try kissing me?"

"I did that once," said Alexandra. "It's a bit like kissing a boy, but with boobs."

Miss Lee took a breath to explain what she thought about this, but I took a step forward.

"This, I have to see." And to spill all my French, I added, "Après vous madame."

"I'll come along to translate," said Alexandra. "Mind you, I don't know all the dirty words. Are you coming, Fatin?"

Fatin had installed herself on a chair with Raage. "No. I will sit here, and drink tea, and watch Miss Felicia become beautiful."

 
We walked to a downstairs section of the shop, and stopped in front of an unmarked Door, which Sylvie opened with the Key. She lit a few lights, and we stepped into a room smelling of leather, cloth, and a hint of lavender. The light was dim, intimate. Our voices were dampened by the collections of fabric hanging from racks. In the middle was a well-lit stand for the victim.

"Voila les collections spéciales."

Miss Lee looked round once or twice, a sneer on her face, and took a breath to tell the world that she wasn't having any of this tosh, but then she stopped.

"Oh."

One of the mannequins, hand on hip, looking away from us as if we were below its dignity to notice, was wearing an outfit of the darkest leather. Miss Lee hovered over.

"Oh."

I could see her eyes taking in the outfit. Supple leather trousers, a waistcoat leaving the arms bare, bracelets, broad belt, even a kind of dog collar with small silver studs. Sylvie came over and asked if it pleased her.

"You got that in my size?"

It's always a pleasure to see a professional at work. Sylvie nudged Miss Lee to the stand, got her out of her clothes without too much trouble, measured her up, and found her a nearly-fitting outfit in the space of ten minutes. With tailor's chalk, she marked the trousers and the waistcoat. She produced a table from out of nowhere, and a mechanical sewing machine. As we watched, she ripped out seams, cut the fabric to match Miss Lee's figure, and re-sewed it on the machine. She made it look so easy, but I could recognise the years of experience in the efficiency of her movements, the routine. There's no substitute for practice. Miss Lee put on the new outfit. Sylvie pulled out a full length mirror, and Miss Lee could admire herself. For a few moments, the world outside had disappeared, and all that existed was Miss Lee enjoying her new look, and Sylvie's satisfaction in having found it for her.

"I'm never taking this off again."

 
As we emerged from the dungeon of a thousand pleasures, we found Miss Felicia, changed from caterpillar to butterfly. She was wearing a very flattering green dress that drew one's attention to a figure one never realised she had. She put her hand on her hip, mannequin style, and looked down on us mere peasants. I nudged Miss Lee.

"Grovel. She wants us to grovel."

"You take her arms, I'll take her legs."

"That," said Miss Felicia, "is no way to talk to the Duchess of Ipswich, especially since she is planning to buy dinner for you all."

Miss Lee nearly bounced. "Oh boy, tonight, we eat!"

Miss Felicia asked Madame Mathilde for advice, and she recommended an out of the way place called l'Embouscade. A famous figure from the Revolution had been ambushed there leaving his mistress' house, and had been murdered in a most savage manner. Just the thing to give you an appetite.

"Perfect," said Alexandra. "Striking from the shadows is my speciality."

Dinner in France is taken around eight, and can easily stretch till eleven. We started with a bottle of red wine and bits of bread. Next were les crudités, salad to you. Then a thin potato soup. You were supposed to pour a little wine into your soup plate and pick up the last with some bread. The amuse-gueules followed, crackers with a variety of sauces to keep your face occupied while the cooks prepared the main dish. And more wine. Fatin sampled one or two wines, then stuck to water. Raage, after a discreet feeding, was given a piece of bread, which he worked into a soggy mess until Fatin wiped it off. The main course was confit de canard, preserved duck so well cooked it fell off the bone, with potatoes fried in duck fat, with a walnut lettuce.

 
We were on the cheese board, with a small glass of port. I noticed Fatin looking round at the other guests. I touched her arm, nodded at a boy and a slightly older lady. The waiter had just poured a little wine into the boy's glass, and he was looking at it by the candle flame, swishing it in the glass, smelling it, and finally carefully tasting a small sip. The lady watched him with an amused little smirk. He nodded at the waiter, who filled first the lady's glass, then the boy's. It's a ritual. Only if the wine is corked or completely turned to vinegar will you send it back. In a place like this, that simply does not happen.

"Family, sister, or lover?"

Fatin only had to look once. "Lovers." Her eyes gleamed at me. "She has had a good hunt."

"She has. How about them?"

Fatin looked. "Family. There is no... want. No hunger."

"I think they work together. Oh." I subtly nodded my head at two girls in a dark corner, early twenty at most. They sat quietly talking, looking into each other's eyes, quiet smiles on their faces, food forgotten on their plates. "What about them?"

Fatin looked, frowned. "Sisters, I think, but..." She looked again. "They do not feel like sisters."

"Lovers," I said. "They're a bit less shy about such things here."

"Why would they want to be lovers? You need a man to make babies. If there are no babies, the tribe dies."

"There are so many people here that not everyone needs to make babies. You can be lovers just for the love of it."

Fatin simply stared at me, an unbelieving little laugh on her lips. She looked back at the girls. One of them put a finger under the other's chin, kissed her, nodded towards the door. The other girl giggled, waved at the waiter.

Fatin looked at her empty plate, then at the small child against her breast, then back up at me.

"Sometimes I think I am home. Then, I see I am far away from home."

The girls walked past our table, not quite holding hands.

"They look happy," said Fatin, following them with her eyes as they walked out. "Ah. An easy one. The two by the door."

I looked. An elegant young lady with shoulder-long dark hair sat at a table with a large blonde man in a grey suit. Fatin was right. The hard part was to figure out whether she would eat the salad on her plate first, or her companion. She must have felt our eyes on her, because she looked at us, smiled like a predator, then turned back to her prey. She said something and he grinned sheepishly, completely under her spell.

Miss Lee put her hand on my shoulder and leaned over to me. "We need to get out of here. That man is a Jäger. Don't know who the broad is."

The room seemed to grow colder. "Do you know him?"

"I know the type. Big Prussian bastard. Pass it on. We're leaving."

Miss Lee exchanged looks with Alexandra, who whispered to Miss Felicia. She waved over the waiter, she settled, and we walked out of the door. Alexandra's jacket was open and I could see the butt of her revolver.

"Let's find a carriage," she said.

 
The carriage took us along the Paris streets back to Orly, where Lady I was waiting. We walked up the gangplank, and into the mess hall, where the boys were playing cards. Felicia made her entrance. Philip, charmer that he was, got up and walked over to her, offering her his arm.

"Who is this beautiful lady, and where has Miss Sunderland gone?"

Andrew turned round. "This is Miss Felicia."

Felicia laughed. "The captain is joking, Andrew."

Philip raised Felicia's hand to his lips. "But not, I assure you, about your great beauty."

Felicia giggled. She turned round. "What do you think of my new dress, Andrew?"

"It is suitable for temperate climates. Given the fabric, it is not allowable in the workshop as it would be a safety hazard."

Felicia laughed, sounding genuinely happy. "Thank you, Andrew."

 
It was time to turn in. Felicia and I went to our cabin, and she took off the dress, holding it up and admiring it again.

"I've just spent half my life's savings on a dress and dinner. You think this is stupid, don't you?"

"Yes," I said.

Felicia ran her fingers over the fabric. "I was never going to spend that money."

"Good thing you did now."

"Yes." She carefully folded up the dress that she looked stunning in, and pulled on her dull plain pyjamas. She sighed as she got into bed. "Good night, Margaret."

Felicia was right. We were going into danger. Our enemies were not far away. The soul needs sustenance as much as the body does, and this day would be a thing to remember in dark days.

Carl Tennant: A land war in Russia

Boys' night in - Another passenger - Into the Venetican tundras - Boreas returns - Language problems - Scorched earth - Moskovian threats - A rat trap - A device from Hell - Return to Paris

 

---

 

NEW CHEF AT ALGERNON UNIVERSITY

 

Rina Prescott reporting.

 

Following the retirement of our Chef Lawson last week, the Algernon Clarion can now reveal the name of the new chef cook at Algernon U. We will be fed and watered by Mr. James Oliver, who avid readers of the Gazette may recognise as the former head chef of a chain of restaurants forced to close due to circumstances beyond their control. Those of us with a palate not ruined by the unending Turkey Twizzlers, mashed potatoes and thoroughly boiled greens, may already have noticed a change in the meals served to the student body of our University. Gone are the classical food groups of Cremated Animal, Stodge, Healthy Vegetables, with Sugar for dessert. Chef Oliver has sworn to fill our troughs with foodstuffs that promote healthy growth of mind and body, by cutting down on the grease and salt that used to be the defining characteristic of the things ladled onto our plates.

 

Your reporter has managed to secure a brief interview with the new chef while overseeing the chopping of the onions, the dicing of the carrots, and the peeling of the potatoes. He assured me that no foreign muck will feature on the menu, but only healthful, locally grown produce from farmers near Ipswich. He explained that an epidemic of obesity ravages our lands and only through a carefully balanced diet can a complete downfall of Britain's youth be avoided.

 

On an unrelated note, your reporters have spied the regular appearance of a horse drawn carriage some three hundred yards from the University gates, marked "Atkins Fish And Chips". This vehicle has been cunningly designed as a mobile kitchen, specialising in foods fried in the finest animal fat available. They specialise in cod, hake or haddock served in used pages of the Gazette with fried potato strips and a seasoning of sea salt and malt vinegar. Their prices are tailored to the pocketbook of the average student, and those of us with a morbid longing for the food of days gone by can enjoy a brief taste of the things that were.

 

---

 
Lady I was at rest, her fires out, moored at Paris' second largest airport. With the ladies out on the town, and no sign of the Arkham agent Mr. James T. Riley, all we could do was wait. We tried playing Poker, but Mr. Parsons simply did not understand the concept of bluffing, and kept ordering his cards in such a way that only a blind man could not have guessed what cards he had. Wadcroft challenged him to a game of Backgammon instead, and was soundly thrashed three games in a row. We finally settled on playing Gin Rummy, which had the right proportion of chance and skill to keep everyone interested. There is in airports a charming habit of selling bottles of drink in that grey area between countries where the taxes don't apply. I had acquired a bottle of Brandywine, which the French call Cognac. We all thought it was very nice, except for Mr. Parsons, who said we were mistaken and stuck to tea.

As the clock approached midnight, there were noises at the door and the ladies came in, with Miss Felicia looking as if she had walked out of a fashion magazine.

Fatin disappeared into our cabin with Raage. Prof. Enderby and Miss Felicia retired. Alex and Brenda sat down at the table. Alex reached for the tea. I poured Brenda a Cognac and she downed it in one gulp.

"What about my new clothes? Don't tell me nobody noticed."

"You look like a pirate," I said, refilling her glass. "Suits you."

Brenda turned the glass round in her hands. "Saw a Jäger tonight. He just happened to be in the same place we were. Have to stay hard, Tennant."

"Are you sure?" said Father. "Did you know him?"

She shook her head. "No. But I know a Jäger when I see one."

"Did he recognise you?"

"No reason he should, but he was with some woman, and she knew who we were, I'd bet my new pants on it. We're being hunted, Captain." Brenda took a small sip. "Or maybe I'm seeing things."

"Riley and the Arkham lot have driven Prometheus from their lair." Father reached for the bottle. "But that does not mean they have disappeared. They may want it back."

"What about the local authorities?" I said. "Surely, the Sûreté have opinions on this matter?"

"I don't know," said Father. "But neither Prometheus nor Riley will be eager for attention."

Alexandra emptied her mug of tea, put it down. "Have we heard from Riley yet?"

"No," said Father. "If he doesn't show up tomorrow, we will head for Kirov without him. I would rather not though. He has his uses."

"It's hard to say whose side he is on," said Alexandra.

"Easy." Brenda stretched her arms. "His own. Nobody really wants him on their side."

I picked up the bottle of Cognac, looked at it, then put it down again. "I suppose we'd better keep a watch."

"Who wants first watch?" Brenda looked at me as though expecting something.

I raised my hand, looked at the clock. Half past midnight. "Can't wait to be up in the air again. Nobody sneaking up on us there."

Brenda got to her feet. "Want me to take the next?"

"No use. Sun'll be up by seven. I can take it till then. Just give me a moment to tell Fatin and get a flask of coffee."

 
At three in the morning, someone approached and called up. "Anyone up there?"

"Riley?"

"Yeah. Drop the plank, there's a good lad."

"Just a minute."

I fussed with the mechanism a little. I'll take orders from Father without question. Yankee spies have to wait. The gangplank came down and he stepped inside.

"Where's your father?"

"Asleep. Surprisingly."

"Well wake him up, I have to talk to him. And get some coffee going. We gotta leave ten minutes ago."

I gave him a warm smile. "Hey Jimmy. You know what I'd really like? A nice hot cup of coffee. Would you like some as well?"

"Christ, can it will you? I ain't in the mood for a goddamn cockfight that you're gonna lose anyway."

"I'll just raise the gangplank, Riley. In case someone unpleasant wants to come on board."

"You do that." Riley scowled, and walked inside.

I tied up the gangplank and followed him to the mess hall. I pointed him at a seat.

"Sit. I'll wake up Father."

I knocked on Father's cabin door, waited a second, entered. I turned up the light a bit, and looked at the two paintings above his desk. One had been painted by a professional painter, and showed a good likeness of Mother. The other, he had drawn himself, and showed a woman whom he befriended in the Aztec city of Anctapolepl, a kind of Eldorado hidden in the South American jungles, almost a year ago. Her name was Itzel, and Father had named Lady I after both her and Mother. Fatin had named one of the engines Iris, the other Itzel.

Father stirred. "Carl. What is it?"

"Riley."

"Ah. I'll get dressed. Tell him to wait. I suppose we can all use some strong coffee."

"Excellent idea."

 
I left Father to talk to Riley and woke up Brenda and Alex.

"What is it?" Alex blinked at me.

"Riley's here. We're off."

Alex stuck her feet out of bed, and I could see the scars on her legs under her nightgown. I looked away.

"Great," said Alex. "I was just dreaming about him."

Brenda jumped down from her top bunk. "You were making shooting noises."

Alex grinned at her. "Yes. Piss off, dear brother of mine. We'll be out in five minutes."

"Right," I said.

I entered the 'Iris' machine room and started to bring her to life. I engaged the feeding apparatus that drags high energy coal out of the bunkers. Next, I ignited the coal with a fine spray of highly flammable oil and checked the level of the water tank. Ten minutes later, Iris was humming at her optimal speed, and we could drive the propellers at half speed while I got Itzel started.

The idea that another woman had taken Mother's place in my father's heart, at first shocked and angered me. Eventually I calmed down, and realised Lady Itzel had done no such thing, that her place in Father's affections sat next to mother's, not on top of it. Still, I always started the engine first that bore my Mother's name. Perhaps for the same reason, 'Iris' was always quicker to respond to my hands than 'Itzel' was.

With both engines running, I went to the bridge and deflated the envelopes, pumping hydrogen gas back into the tanks, pushing Lady I to the ground, so that Alex and Brenda could undo the mooring lines without being left behind in the Parisian jungles. My sister and the Cabin Boy walked in to announce that all were aboard, and I inflated the envelopes. Lady I rose some ten feet above the airships next to her. I engaged the propellers and floated her over the markings to the queue behind a much larger Corsican Cors'air airship. Alex turned on the Aldis light and was assigned an altitude by the control tower.

She called over her shoulder. "Five thousand feet, south east, good flight."

"Five thousand. South east. Acknowledged."

I pumped more hydrogen into the envelopes, and Lady I rose slowly, turning to the south east. At a slow pace, we proceeded for two miles to the point where we were free of the Airport's controls, and we could go wherever we pleased. Lady I rose to a comfortable altitude of some ten thousand feet. This was always a balancing act. As we rose, surrounding air pressure grew less, increasing the pressure on the envelopes. The art was to pump enough gas back into the tanks to keep the pressure low without stopping our ascent. There were safety valves to prevent rupturing, but sacrificing too much of our precious lifting gas to the Angels was to be prevented. I watched the pressure gauges carefully, adjusting the pumps. Fatin never looked at the gauges. She could feel Lady I's every mood in her bones, and never wasted more than a thimblefull of gas.

We set a north-easterly course for Kirov, at a speed measured to conserve coal. The green forests of France rolled away below us in the red light of the rising sun. It would take us a few days to get there, flying over Belgium, Germany, skirting along the coast line of Poland, then Lithuania, Latvia, and the endless snow plains of Russia. Two thousand miles in all. Three days.

 
Brenda, Alex, Fatin and I took the helm in turns. The air became colder. The sunlight became harsher, reflecting from snow-covered plains. These very plains had often been the strongest defence in the Russian wars. The sheer distance and the harsh climate were enough to exhaust enemy armies before they even reached any military objective. The Russians had been known even to burn down their own towns in a scorched earth tactic, denying the enemy resources, then attacking their long and thin supply lines. This left many an enemy quite literally starving and freezing to death in the middle of the tundras, without the Russians having to fire a single shot. I was standing at the helm clutching a cup of cocoa, effortlessly sailing over the frozen skeletons of armies defeated by the very land itself. Technology, the child of the Human mind, made this possible.

Riley came onto the bridge once, demanding we speed up. Father told him to get lost, and he disappeared into the boys' cabin, brooding. Professors Wadcroft and Enderby took to the ship's study, taking the time to read and work on scientific articles. Andrew had more or less claimed one of the observation chairs, and spent the days staring outside, never speaking. Miss Felicia was never far from him. She once more dressed in her sensible, practical clothes, with the addition of a nice warm woolly jumper she had borrowed from prof. Enderby and nearly drowned in. Apart from keeping Miss Felicia warm, it also turned her into the most comfortable place for a snooze, a fact not lost on Stranger, who jumped into her lap whenever she sat down. The expert scratches behind her ears were an added benefit. Stranger's, not Miss Felicia's.

"Tea anyone?"

Brenda walked onto the bridge, black streaks on her face and overalls after checking and oiling the engines. Assuming, correctly, that no Limey would ever refuse tea, she walked out, to return with the big teapot, a pint of milk, and mugs threaded onto a piece of rope. She made the rounds. She came to Andrew and gave him her best smile.

"Tea, Andrew?"

"It is not tea time.."

"Oh come on. I made it specially for you."

"It is not yet four o'clock."

"Even before cleaning my face." Brenda bent over Andrew. "Can you see?"

"There is some machine oil on your face," said Andrew.

"Oh? Where?"

Andrew pointed at Brenda's cheek. She turned round and sat down on his lap.

"Do you like it?"

Andrew leaned back, hands on the armrest. He turned his iron face to the window. Miss Felicia appeared next to Andrew's chair. She touched his shoulder, and he looked at her.

"Andrew? Could you please see if the engines need more oil?" A little sharp edge crept into Miss Felicia's voice. "Miss Lee may have made a mistake."

Andrew nodded once, then lifted Brenda off his lap with as much effort as it took someone to remove a cat. He stood up and walked out of the door. Miss Felicia turned to Brenda.

"Miss Lee. Please don't do that again."

"What? Most boys like it when I climb into their lap!"

"Andrew is not most boys. I don't know whether you are doing this because you have a genuine interest in him, or just to annoy me. But you should know that what you just did is very distressing for him. Andrew does not cope well with human emotions."

"You're making him sound like he came from the Moon."

"In some ways, he might as well have. I know very well what he looks like to most people. Some people pity him. Some people fear him. Nobody respects him. And nobody knows him, not even I do. Now if you want to get on my nerves, please be my guest. I can take anything you throw at me. Andrew can not. And if you hurt him in any way..." Miss Felicia moved a little closer. "I will have your head."

I watched as the two women looked at each other. Brenda could snap Miss Felicia's neck in an instant, and they both knew it. Still, there was not even a shimmer of doubt that Miss Felicia had meant what she said. Brenda took a breath.

"I don't want to hurt the big guy."

"Good," said Miss Felicia.

There was a pause until finally, Brenda held up a mug.

"Tea?"

Miss Felicia's eyes wrinkled. "That'd be lovely."

 

---

 
We were ten miles away from Kirov, approaching its smallest airport from the North. With Fatin at the helm, I contacted the tower, and was guided to one of the mooring posts. We almost had the place to ourselves. Two Russian aeroflot airships were tethered to the ground with storm lines for the winter. One ship was loading crates using a crane. Most airships made for Kirov's Pobedilovo airport, ten minutes away from the city. We liked the quiet.

Father put on his best Captain's outfit and went to the offices to sort out the paperwork. Half an hour later, he came back with a uniformed grey-haired official who wanted to check our cargo. Since our cargo consisted mainly of provisions for our trip, for our own use, this ought to be fairly simple. Except of course we had enough weapons and ammunition to supply a small revolution. Russia's Customs and Excise might frown on that.

We had raised the ladder to our in-envelope deck where our armory was. Brenda and I had enjoyed an excellent bit of exercise dismounting the fifty-caliber repeating cannons and hoisting them up into the attic. I had questioned the wisdom of storing guns and ammunition in the middle of tons of hydrogen, but as Brenda put it, if a fire would break out there, we'd be buggered anyway. We warmly invited the Russian in for a glass of French brandy, and walked into the mess hall to find my dear sister reassembling her sniper rifle after having cleaned it. Luckily, I was standing behind him so he could not see the expression on my face. Alex gave him the brightest smile.

"Привет," she said, which I knew for a fact was her entire vocabulary in Russian.

"Good morning to you," said the Russian. He bent over the table. "That is serious piece of weapon."

Alex laughed. "It is, isn't it? It was a present from Uncle James." She held out her hand. "Alexandra Tennant. How do you do."

"Alexandra..." He shook her hand. "I am Stanislav Belov, but please to call me Stani." He picked up the telescopic sight, looked at it. "Ah. It is a German one. Good. Much better than what the English put on."

"Pleased to meet you, Stani," said Alex. "You know your rifles. Are you a marksman yourself?"

"Not these days, but when my granddaughter does not work, or shoot at the club in Kiev, she dreams of guns. I do not think is healthy for such a young girl, but she shoots targets only. I pray she never learns to shoot the living."

"Oh." Alex filled a cup of tea for her new friend Stani. "I've been meaning to ask. We may have to wait here a while. Is there a shooting range here? I'd like to put in a little practice."

Stani waved his arm in a grand gesture. "We have whole tundra. I will put you at the edge of the field and you can set up target there. Just do not shoot living things you do not want to eat." He emptied his teacup at a gulp, and I wondered if he had a gullet made of steel. If not, Andrew could probably make it for him. "Now, please could you all passengers come up and show their passports?"

"Of course. Have another cup of tea and I'll round them up."

Stani checked all our papers, taking his time, chatting with Alex about rifles. He waved us goodbye, and went his way. Riley watched him go, then gave Alexandra a disgusting little smirk.

"You like older men, Alex?"

Almost without looking at her hands, Alex re-assembled the last parts of her rifle, pointed it towards the bridge, away from anyone. Firearm discipline is not a habit to be neglected. She put it on the table in front of her on its bipod.

"He's a nice man. He caught me with serious piece of weapon. I could have charmed him out of calling in the police, or I could have slit his throat." Alex put her chin on her hands and smiled sweetly at Riley. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

 

---

 
Riley had left to gain information on Prometheus' activities from his spy friends. Father was at the airport office to buy more high energy coal. The scientists were in the library writing their eldritch tomes on the nature of existence. I suggested a run in the beautiful snowy plains. Alex and Brenda flipped a coin and Brenda was stuck with guard duty in a warm comfortable airship.

Alex disappeared into the galley and came out with water bottles and a small bag containing a dozen eggs that had been with us for a little too long. We set off side by side. I let Alex set the pace. Before her capture, she could have run circles round me. Now, I could keep up with her without any effort. Neither of us wanted to stray too far away from Lady I, so we ran laps round the airport. There is something deeply satisfying in hearing fresh snow crunch underfoot, and for a while I forgot all else in a pleasant runner's trance until Alex stumbled on a slippery piece. I reached out, grabbed her arm, kept her from falling. She scowled, angry with herself, closed her eyes a moment, and stopped. She bent down, hands on her knees.

"Thank you."

I pulled out my water bottle and drank, so she could do the same without shame. I know my sister. She will not show weakness in the face of the enemy... or her brother. I waited for her to recover, kick her legs out a few times.

"Ready?" She rounded her shoulders.

"Just a minute." I knelt down, re-tied the laces on my boot, giving her a little more time.

"Come on." She sounded impatient.

Alexandra set off at a trot and I followed her. I listened to her breathe, normal, easy. Her footsteps were regular. I glanced at her face, and she looked determined, almost angry. We ran two more five-mile laps until we could once more see the orca-like silhouette of our home in the sky. I looked at Alex and knew she'd had enough.

"I think I'd like some tea. You?"

Alex smiled at me. "What you mean, dear brother of mine, is don't overexert yourself."

"Well..."

She turned to me, put her arms round me, and also put her cold hands under my fleece jacket. We stood like that for a few moments, silent. I studied her face. The bruises were gone. There was a small red scar over her right eye where some brute had kicked her. She put her hand, nicely warmed up, on my cheek.

"I'm all right. I'm grateful. Without you, and Brenda, and Andrew, and Dr. Singh, and Dr. Bernhardt, and Father, and everyone, I would not be here now. There are people who cannot run even one lap round this airport, and we did three. I..." She swallowed away a lump in her throat, closed her eyes a moment. "I have to forget who I was. I have to get used to who I am now. That's the long and short of it. My legs aren't as strong as they were, but they still carry me where I need to go, and I had no right to expect that."

She put her head on my shoulder, held me tighter, looked up.

"You mentioned tea."

"I did."

"Oh. Just a moment."

She pulled her bag of eggs out, and put her hand inside.

"Eww."

One of the eggs had broken, but she pulled out the others and put them in a neat row in front of a fallen tree. She brushed away the snow behind them, so they stood out against the dark wood.

"Offerings for the Gods?"

She laughed. "Yes. Come on, let's go."

We were about five hundred yards away from Lady I, when Alex broke into a full sprint. I sped up next to her, and she growled, doubled her effort if not her speed. I stayed with her till about two hundred yards, then sped up, leaving her behind. She would have slapped my face if I'd have let her win. She put her hand on Lady I's hull maybe ten seconds after I did. I squeezed her shoulder.

"You make the tea."

 
Alex was lying down on a blanket next to the open starboard door, peering through the German telescopic sight on her rifle. Professor Enderby stood next to her, leaning against the bulkhead. I was sitting next to Alex, mug of tea in one hand, other hand on the spotting scope. Alexandra fired.

"Three inches high."

"Good grief, that's loud!" Margaret pointed at the barrel. "Are you sure your silencer is working?"

"Actually, it's called a suppressor," said Alex. "Doesn't silence much with high velocity rounds. The biggest bang comes from the bullet ripping through the air."

"So why use it then?"

"Hides the muzzle flash." Alex took a breath, held it, slowly let it escape. She fired again. "Also increases the weight. Keeps it from kicking as much."

"Two inches left. Wind picking up, East fifteen knots."

"East fifteen." She adjusted her sight one click. Concentrated. Fired again. I saw the egg, a thousand yards away, explode into shards.

"Got it."

"Can I have a go?" Brenda stood behind us.

"Of course," said Alex. "Just don't shoot all my eggs."

"Eggs?"

"Range nine hundred and eighty meters." Alex got up. "Show us what you have, Marine!"

Brenda lay down, looked through the sight. "You're really shooting at eggs, you maniac! I thought you were joking."

"Go on. Hit 'em."

"Big end or little end?"

"Oh don't bring politics into it."

Brenda fired.

"Ten inches high," I said. "You're forgetting you have a suppressor."

Brenda took another five shots or so, then she hit one of the eggs. "Got it!"

"Bloody Texas sharp shooters," said Alex.

"Meh. Good effect on target, that's what counts."

I pointed the spotting scope at the remaining eggs, and saw something moving in the sky beyond. Another airship was making its way to our airport.

"We're having guests," I said. "Good Lord, It's Boreas!"

Brenda looked at the airship through the rifle sight.

"Who are they?" Brenda gave a low whistle. "Talk about your serious weaponry."

"Don't shoot them, Brenda. They're friends."

Professor Enderby looked out over the fields, shielding her eyes with her hand. "What does the Arkham lot want here?"

Mr. Riley came walking up. "Ah. About time the bastards showed up. They're going to help us find the Prometheus hideout"

"You knew they were coming?" I said. "Were you planning on telling us about this some time, Riley?"

"You'll know what you need, when you need to know," he said, airily. "Operational secrecy."

Alex picked up her rifle and took the bullets out. She gave Riley a cool look. "Any other surprises?"

"Only nice ones, sweetheart."

"No such thing," said Brenda.

 

---

 
Boreas had arrived at Paris only a few hours after we left, and followed us to Kirov, leaving one man behind to keep an eye on the Prometheus device. She was a research vessel from a University in Arkham in the Americas. They had been the ones supporting Hammond's expedition where we had found the mysterious ore that had started this whole adventure. Her captain was named Gaskin, and he was a decent sort, never failing to drop our supplies in the right place, at the right time. Just the sort of chap you need when your expedition leaders are prone to go wherever the voices in their heads tell them to go.

After Father disappeared into South America to search for African settlements, Alexandra and I finished our education at one of England's many boarding schools. Diplomas in hand, we specialised ourselves in the care and feeding of scientists in uncharted places. We would arrange transport, liaise with the locals for supplies, defend the expedition from the violent, the hungry and the greedy. All those things a scientist with a head full of fresh new knowledge can't be bothered with.

Hammond's job came at the same time as a trip into the Swiss Alps with a group of Prussian geologists looking for silver. We drew lots, and Alex went to Germany while I went to Africa. It was supposed to be a quick affair. A few weeks trekking through the jungles on a combined biology, anthropology, and geology mission. It was about two weeks into the expedition when one of the anthropologists named James Goodall joined in a ritual with one of the local tribes. He entered the sweat lodge with them, and having consumed the holy mushrooms, and meditated and prayed in an oxygen-deprived environment, was transported body and soul to a sacred place in the mountains far to the East. Here, he entered a hidden cave blessed by the Spirits. In it, or so he said, were deposits enriched by the Holy Light of the Creator Himself, in ancient times before the Fall of Mankind. Spirits had gifted him with several of the holy pebbles.

This is a reason fraternising with the local population is frowned upon.

Goodall should have been put in a quiet tent for a while with a cup of tea nearby, but sadly, it was not to be. So convincingly did he describe his spiritual journey that Hammond jumped up, and declared that this expedition would leave immediately in search of this wonder. A colleague of mine had told me that Arkham expeditions were prone to doing such things, and I had laughed in his face. I owe him a pint of ale.

I tried to argue. We had just been supplied, and our support vessel would be expecting us in this same place in two weeks. Surely, since these holy stones had been laid down in Ancient Times, a few more days wouldn't matter? Also, with Boreas here, we could fly east in comfort rather than yomping through difficult terrain. Goodall argued that through this journey, we would prove ourselves worthy to behold this miracle. At which point Hammond cut off all debate, and decided that we should leave.

So what does one do? One doubles one's fee, one organises transport as best as one can, and one grins and bears it. We did leave an expedition trunk behind containing photographs, notes on where we were going, and a few samples of the Holy Rocks.

 
I am used to travelling in inhospitable places: jungle, desert, icy plains, swamp land, mountains, even foreign cities. But Hammond and Goodall drove us harder than any other expedition I have ever been on. The saying of 'more haste, less speed' applies here. To make the best progress, one has to pace oneself. Push yourself too hard, and you wear yourself out, and Nature herself will make you slow down. We travelled constantly on the edge of exhaustion. Our bearers were saying that they were not being paid enough for this, and rightly so. I put this to Hammond, and he dismissively doubled the bearers' fees, completely missing the point.

 
After three weeks of hard travel, we ran into a friendly tribe named the Ajuru, one of many tribes so named along the White Nile. It is a name that means, simply, 'The People.' I managed to convince Goodall that these wise and noble savages might have ancient knowledge that we needed, and we spent a glorious two days simply resting at the Ajuru camp site.

That evening, as I finally allowed myself to collapse gently against a tree, a vision of unseen beauty appeared to me. A dark maiden, clothed only in a skirt made of plant fibres and a necklace made of brightly coloured beads stood before me, a cup of herbal tea in her hands, with the evening sun shining behind her. I could only stare at her, until she pushed the cup into my hands and told me to drink it while it was hot. I tried, burnt my tongue. She laughed, sat down next to me. Moving her face close to mine, she blew on the tea, then gave me a look. I tried again.

"Thank you," I said.

She said 'You're welcome' in her own tongue, or so I must assume. We spent an hour simply talking to each other, I in English, she in her own language, neither of us understanding a word of what the other was saying, but not caring too much. Finally, she got up, said she had work to do, and walked away, giving me a smile over her shoulder as she went.

"Hey!"

She waited. I pointed at my chest.

"Carl."

She pointed at her own chest. "Fatin."

"Fatin," I repeated.

"Kal," she said.

 
Hammond, Goodall, and the Tribe Elder who I would later come to know as Hanad, spoke together for a long time, exchanging gifts of knives and earthenware cups, drinking a lot of tea. Nothing much emerged, but everybody seemed to enjoy themselves. As for me, I was rather bored with the affair until I went to refill my teacup and out of nowhere, Fatin appeared next to me.

She nodded at our glorious leaders, and said a few words I couldn't understand. I did understand the little laugh underneath those words.

"They're looking for treasure far, far away." I sighed.

I moved to fill my teacup, but she took it out of my hand and put it down. She moved her lips to my ear, and whispered in my ear. Those words I do remember, because she still uses them at times. She took my hand and gently pulled me a little way away from the camp. I will pull a discreet veil over what happened next, but suffice it to say that Raage was born as a result.

This is another reason that fraternising with the locals is frowned upon.

I don't care.

They can frown on me as long as they like.

 

---

 
Father came back from the airport office, bearing news from Dr. Godfrey Pike, retired Secret Service agent and now head of security at Algernon University. He wrote that one of the captured Prometheus agents had voluntarily told them the location of their Kirov headquarters. Father had bought a local map, and the address turned out to be a steel factory in the north of the city. It was not likely, said Dr. Pike, that Magister Slate would be there, but it would no doubt have people inside with a wealth of information.

Soon after Boreas was moored at a much larger spot than our own, we had a visit from Captain Gaskin and a few of his crew. We gathered in the mess hall for a Council of the Wise. Riley was in a foul mood. His low friends had not been willing to tell him what he needed to know, and his usual tactics of bribery combined with veiled threats had failed him. Pointing out to him that Her Majesty's Secret Service had come through did not improve his mood. Captain Gaskin gathered half a dozen sturdy sailors, and we volunteered myself and our Cabin Boy. Captain Gaskin pointed out that this was no job for a lady. Brenda agreed, and suggested that Gaskin's sailors should stay on board, or they might get their clothes dirty.

Since we were in foreign parts, far away from our native home, we could not simply march into the steel works armed with guns. The locals might have objected. So we disguised ourselves as construction workers, on our way to build or demolish some shed or other. A sledge hammer is as good a weapon as any, and it will also serve to open doors without a key.

Riley had volunteered to come along and do the talking as he spoke Russian, even with a believable Ukrainean accent. He had also organised a cart of scaffolding material, drawn by two horses.

We rode into town, and were greeted with mile upon mile of steel manufacturing plants, foundries, workshops. I felt a pang of guilt that we had not brought Andrew along. This place would have spoken to his very soul. I was driving, with Brenda sitting next to me. Riley and the sailors sat in the back.

"Remember," said Riley. "You're supposed to be Russians, and none of you speaks Russian, so..."

"Samovar!" One of the sailor raised a fist "Troika Omsk Wladiwostok!"

"Nyet kameradski!"

"Balalalalaika!"

"Vodka Snyert!"

Riley glared at them. "The next of you sumbitches opens up his goddamn pie hole, I'm gonna shove a goddamn sledge down it. You got that?"

That seemed to work. They all kept quiet. Brenda looked over her shoulder.

"Da, Tovarisch."

"Shut up, soldier."

 
We rode on, Brenda holding the map, me driving. She looked up at the forest of smokestacks, turning the sky grey with smoke and clouds and noise.

"Gotta hand it to Slate. He had to hide a factory somewhere, and he hid it where nobody would ever look for it. In between other factories, just like the letter in that Poe story."

I turned down a side road. "Didn't take you for the literary type."

Brenda gave a little chuckle. "Military work is just waiting most of the time." Her eyes gleamed at me. "Can't jack off all the time."

I frowned. "Jack off? Is there something you haven't told me?"

"It's a Marine thing. It just doesn't sound right with rub off."

"I can help you with that," said one of the sailors.

"Take me a week to find it, numbnuts."

Ah, laughter, the universal language.

"What has any of this got to do with Edgar Allen Poe?" I said.

I turned down the last street, stopped the horses, and put the brakes on. I stared.

"Oh dear."

The factory was a burnt pile of rubble. The fire had gone out, but there was a strong smell of smoke in the air.

"Damn," said Riley.

We all jumped off the cart and walked onto the site. Some of the walls were stil standing, but the roof had fallen in. Whatever evidence there was that Prometheus had ever been here, was buried under a big pile of rubble. Brenda and I sat down on a piece of fallen masonry, while the sailors, who had been promised some good physical exercise and weren't about to be cheated out of it, were digging through the piles of rubble looking for human remains or gold or anything else worth taking. Riley had walked off to ask the neighbors what had happened here.

Brenda waved her arm. "How the hell am I gonna defile this shitpile?"

"Well," I said, "Everybody's left, but maybe we can do some pillaging."

"Pillage what?"

"Some lovely bricks here."

 
After about half an hour, Riley returned. He did not offer any information. Not that we expected him to.

"Let's go."

We dropped off the cart near the place where Riley had 'found' it, and marched back to the airship Boreas. There was little left to do here. The birds had flown. It was time to cross Venetica off the list and go on to the next. We returned to Lady I, to find that Alex and Andrew had already steamed up the engines. Flying side by side with Boreas, we set of in a westerly direction for Moscow.

 

---

 
For Lady I the flight to Moscow was an easy one as we had to allow for Boreas to keep up. Iris and Itzel are mighty beasts. It would have been undignified, even unprofessional, to fly a ring round Boreas, so we restrained ourselves. After a day or two, we rose high to see the Kremlin appear in our forward telescopes. We made for the smaller Khodynka airport, close to the city centre, and not as busy as Moscow's larger airports.

Riley came to the bridge, and stood by the front window, hands on his back, cane resting against his thigh. I looked at the head of the cane, some sort of bird's foot grasping a glass orb. His face was grim, deep lines round his eyes and the traces of his own capture by our enemy. He hadn't needed a cane before that. For a moment, I sensed his anger at the world that had allowed this to happen to him, and his resolve for revenge.

 
We watched Boreas move majestically to one of the mooring poles, make fast, and settle to the ground. The airport tower's lights turned to us, and we were directed to a place next to her, overly large for us. As soon as our landing wheels touched the ground, Riley turned round and walked to the exit. He did not burden us with any explanations of where he was going, nor did we expect him to. James T. Riley moved in mysterious ways. He had been gone for maybe two hours, when there was a shout from below, and a young Russian boy was standing at our door. I walked up to him.

"Prission comboar?" He sounded proud of his command of Foreign Languages.

"Permission granted," I said, stepping aside. "How may I help you?"

The boy said nothing, but gave me a folded sheet of paper. It was addressed to Captain Philip Tennant.

"Thank you," I said. The boy actually threw off a military salute, turned round, and walked down the gangplank.

I unfolded the letter.

 

Have found address of Prometheus base. Please send all combat ready personnel to Cafe Pushkin, concealed weapons only. Do not, repeat not, inform Captain Gaskin. -- Riley.

 
"Well," said Father. "Are you ready for war?"

I daresay we were. We were clothed for a Russian summer, with heavy duffel coats, woollen hats, and most importantly, Mauser pistols in shoulder holsters. I looked at Alex' stone face. She noticed and flashed me a smile. Father, Wadcroft, and Enderby were staying behind, each with a revolver that I sincerely hoped they would not need today. Miss Sunderland and Andrew would stay in the cargo hold until we were back. Stranger the Cat was asleep on a chair, but would no doubt defend her home tooth and claw when the time came.

We walked to the airport building, and took one of the airport carriages to the famous Pushkin Square. The driver dropped us off on the doorstep, and I walked in with Brenda and Alex close behind. I looked round for Riley. This rather palatial place did not seem like his usual haunt. He seemed more like a man for seedy little taverns and houses of ill repute.

Without warning, Alex grabbed my shoulder and turned me round to face one particular table. At that table sat a tall, thin, dark-haired man, impeccably dressed in black tie. A glass of white wine was in front of him, and a plate of toast sat next to a bowl of dark Caviar. Three more empty wine glasses were on the table.

Next to him sat a young lady in evening dress, gold glinting round her neck and on her ears. She looked us over with a private little smirk, as though she was choosing which biscuit to take from the plate first.

"Slate." Alex' voice was tight, and I knew that she was ready to leap on this man and wring his neck.

Magister Nicholas Slate inclined his head graciously. "Miss Tennant. Mr. Tennant, and my goodness, Miss Lee. What a pleasure to see you all."

Alex stepped forward, eyes fixed on a spot between Slate's eyes. Her hand rose to her weapon.

"Alexandra." Slate gave her a stern look. "Surely, you do not intend to start a firefight in a place like this? I assure you, you would be dead before you could even touch that pistol I see in your pocket." He waved at the chairs. "This is a civilised place, for civilised people. Please sit down. I insist."

"Three men with guns, on our two, eight, and eleven." said Brenda.

"Excellent, Miss Lee. I knew I would not regret hiring you. It saddens me to find you now in the employ of my enemies. Such a waste. Please sit."

Brenda sat down in the chair opposite Slate. "Your goons would have killed me if I hadn't joined."

"Indeed they would have, Miss Lee. I prefer the negotiations where my opponent has no choices." He gave us a dark look. "Such as this one. Sit down, or my associates will after all shoot you and I will have to eat my caviar in another place from now on."

I sat down next to Slate, just so Alex wouldn't have to. This left her the space next to Slate's lady friend. She pulled the bottle out of the cooler and filled Alex' glass.

"So we meet again," she said, and poured wine into Brenda's glass and mine. She lifted her own glass.

"So we do," said Alex. She didn't touch the glass.

"You know her?" I said.

"She was in the same restaurant we were in Paris."

"Very astute," said Slate, raising his glass. "A votre mal santé."

Brenda took a sip. Neither Alex nor I moved.

"Oh come on," said Slate. "This is a rare Szamorodni Tokaji wine. Poisoning that would be nothing less than sacrilege."

"Too sour for my taste," said Brenda, and put the glass down.

"Sec, you troglodyte," the lady whispered, as if to herself.

"It is meant to go with the caviar," said Slate. He took the lady's hand, put a spoonfull of caviar on the back, and looked into her eyes as he ate it.

"So who is this hussy?" said Brenda. "Hester would never have let you do that."

"Hester Klemm would not do many things that I will," said the lady. "And vice versa."

"Like look at her own arse from between her feet?"

Slate shook his head. "Miss Lee. There is no need for that."

"Yes there was," I said. "You have the advantage of me, Miss..."

"Moreau," said the lady. "Sabine Moreau."

"What do you want, Miss Moreau?"

She opened her eyes wide. "I want only to do my Magister's bidding. Especially if that includes killing people." Her hand moved under the table, and I saw Alex freeze. "How are the knees, darling?"

"Fine," said Alex.

"That's nice. It's a shame you won't enjoy them for long."

Alex sat up straight, and gave Miss Moreau a look that would have frozen anyone else.

"I have a knife in my boot. It's very sharp. I daresay I can take your hand off before your friends notice."

Sabine laughed, and pulled back her hand. Before Alex could move, she reached out and pulled out the thin silver necklace Alex was wearing.

"Oh my. Magister, look. It's a bullet. There's a name on it. Shall I read it, or can you guess?"

Slate gave Alex a sad look. "Oh Alexandra. You didn't strike me as one to bear grudges. Look at me. You destroyed my London base. Your friends reduced my Eagle's Nest to rubble, and do I hold it against you?"

"Couldn't care less, to be honest."

"A robust answer," said Slate. "Please let me assure you, I bear you no ill will. It is only because you clearly intend to continue interfering in my plans that I now give this order." He turned to Sabine. "Kill them. Kill them all. Kill Alexandra Tennant, Carl Tennant, Philip Tennant, Kill Miss Lee as well. Professor... Wadcroft, was it Alexandra? You were screaming rather incoherently when you gave that name. Enderby as well." He looked at me. "Kill that little Negress, and her half-caste brat. I leave the how, the where, and the when to you my dear, but do it soon."

"What about Mr. Riley?" said Miss Moreau.

"Him as well," said Slate. "He is rather too good at ferreting out my secrets."

Brenda grinned. "Give me a hundred dollars and I'll kill the bastard for you. Nobody likes Riley."

"I will keep that in mind," said Slate. He got up. "Come, dear. You have a job to prepare."

"Yes Magister," said Sabine. She looked at each of us in turn. "I will see you soon."

And with that, Sabine Moreau on Slate's arm, they simply left. Walked out of the door as if they had been talking about anything else but murder. When we looked, the gunmen had disappeared like a puff of smoke, and we were left sitting at the table. Brenda stuck a finger in the caviar bowl and licked it clean. She took another sip of wine.

"He's right, you know. This does taste better with caviar."

 
Alexandra got up. "Let's go. If we're quick, we can catch them."

"They'll be long gone," I said. "Or planning to lure us into a trap. Another one."

"You're just letting them get away?"

"You goddamn idiots!"

We looked round, and saw that Mr. James Riley had chosen this moment to join us in the cafe.

"Oh hello Riley," I said. "Thanks for your note."

"That wasn't my note, you numbskull."

"You don't say," said Alex.

"For your information," said Riley, "I work for Miskatonic University of Arkham, and so does every single bastard on board Boreas, including Gaskin. If you'd have asked him, he'd have told you that note was a fake. Now let's get out of here."

"Slate was here," I said.

"No kidding. Did he have his pet frog with him?"

"Sabine Moreau, yes. Charming young lady. She wants us all dead. Including you, as it happens."

"Tell her to get in line. Some of my friends want me dead."

Alexandra raised a finger. "Are we going after them? At all? I want to rip the little sod's head off."

Riley reached into his pocket. "I know where they live. Let's go."

 

---

 
Riley called a carriage, and we rode in style to a semi-detached house next to a park. The pond was frozen, and snow covered the paths and the iron fences. There were recent footsteps coming and going to the house. We went round the back, and climbed the fence, hiding in the garden behind some evergreens. In the house, nothing stirred. We skirted along the garden fence, up to the back door. Riley tried the handle, sucked his teeth, produced a set of lockpicks and unlocked the door. It opened, and Brenda walked in, crouching, pistol out. I followed in the same way.

I spotted it purely by luck. A glint near the ground where no glint should be. I grabbed Brenda's shoulder, pointed. A tripwire ran from one side of the kitchen to the other. It disappeared under a kitchen cupboard. I took a few deep breaths to calm my nerves. The cupboard door might be trapped as well, so I went to the door next to it and carefully opened it.

I whistled. "Does anyone need some sticks of explosive? I have lots here."

As I couldn't see any traps on the other door, I carefully opened it, and we could see the beast lurking in the kitchen cupboard. There was enough explosive instantly to turn this house into a hole in the ground. The wire was connected to a spring-loaded detonator that would ignite whether one pulled the wire, or cut it.

"Is there anything on the other end of the wire?"

Brenda looked. "Nail in the wall."

"Good."

Keeping a firm hold on the wire, I pulled the detonator away from the explosive. I pulled out my kukri, cut the wire, walked outside, and threw the detonator away. There was a spark and a small puff of smoke.

"Boom," said Alexandra.

 
We found two more traps. One was connected to a door, and set to explode when someone opened it. The other was a pressure plate. Prometheus were giving us a good sample of their ways of making unwanted guests leave. There was nobody home, unsurprisingly, and we found no far-writing equipment.

We did come away with two big boxes of high quality explosive, though, so the trip was not a complete waste.

 

---

 
We made our way back to Lady I, to find that Andrew had replaced the gangplank mechanism with a much more effective one that automatically slid the gangplank away in a space beneath the door. The sad news of our dismal failure called for cups of cocoa with maybe a splash of brandy. Riley wasn't in the mood and went out again, presumably to give his Russian friends and colleagues an earfull. We all went to the bridge, sat in the comfortable observation chairs, and talked about the afternoon.

"Well," said Father, "Our afternoon hasn't been nearly as eventful as yours. All we've had is a visit from an airport official wanting to see our papers."

"And a handsome one he was, too!" Margaret grinned. "I tried feeding him drunk and having my way with him, but he was Russian. They spend their youth building up an immunity to ethanol poison."

"Which serves them well later in life," said Miss Sunderland.

Father looked round, uneasy. He put down his cup and got up.

"With all these Prometheus rats on the prowl, I'm going to raise our Lady to full cable length."

Father walked to the hydrogen controls, turned the wheels. Lady I started to lean forward.

"Come on Father," said Alex. "You're spilling my cocoa."

"Something's wrong," said Father, frowning at the gauges. "Number one envelope isn't inflating."

"She can't breathe easily," said Fatin. "Someone needs to go and free it up."

"I'll go." I looked at Andrew, who had been staring out of the window and not saying a word. "Andrew? Could you help me find the problem?"

"Yes," said Andrew.

 
Together, we climbed the ladder to the in-envelope deck where the massive tanks of hydrogen gas were, and the pumps operated by Bowden cables from the bridge. I pulled out the speaking tube and had father turn the hydrogen valves. They all worked perfectly, except the welcome hiss of hydrogen was missing.

"Hydrogen hose A-1 is obstructed," said Andrew. "At the back of tank A."

Once Andrew says that something is so, there's no point arguing. I breathed in and slid past the hydrogen tanks. The first thing I saw was that hose A-1 was kinked. The second thing I saw was a device sitting on the floor next to it, a clock connected to a metal cylinder.

The next few moments passed as though time had slowed down. I picked up the hellish device, pushed back past the hydrogen tanks, ran up the ladder to the observation deck, and hurled the device as far away as I could. I held my breath and waited. Nothing happened. I gasped for air, and still nothing happened. Suddenly shaking, I climbed back down to the in-envelope deck to find that Andrew had calmly unkinked the hose and inflated the Number one envelope. Lady I was once more level.

"That was a..." I took a breath. "That was a bomb."

Andrew nodded. "I have restored the hydrogen flow."

"They were trying to blow us up!"

Andrew frowned. "No. You are mistaken. I myself have blown up the envelope."

"That's not what I meant, you..." I took a few deep breaths, calmed myself. "That was an incendiary device, meant to ignite our hydrogen supply. Someone put it there."

"I have not heard any explosion," said Andrew. "Perhaps it malfunctioned. If you wish, I can try to find the problem and repair it."

A variety of answers rushed to me, none of them helpful.

"Let's go and find Father."

"He is on the bridge," said Andrew.

"Good. Let's go there."

 
The device was on Andrew's workbench, and he was peering at it through a protective mask and goggles. We al stood round waiting for his verdict.

"This is a delayed action incendiary device. This is a timer. This is a gas container. The timer will operate a valve, and the escaping gas will operate a flint-and-striker mechanism, igniting the gas and projecting a flame."

"Damn." Brenda scowled. "If the Captain hadn't wanted to raise us up, we would have been toast! Looks like the thing was set to go off when we were asleep."

"No."

Brenda raised an eyebrow at Andrew. "No?"

"The device would not have worked. There was no gas in the cylinder to operate the ignitor."

"Maybe the gas escaped when I threw out the device," I said.

"That is possible, but it cannot be determined from available data."

Father bent over the device. "What is the maximum delay on that clock, Andrew?"

"It is a modified household alarm clock," said Andrew. "A maximum of twelve hours."

"We were in the air for two days," said Father. "That means the device was placed on board only after we arrived at Moscow."

"Assuming that none of us are suicidal," said Alex. "Who could have put it there?"

"The only stranger on board was the airport official," said Father. "But he never left my sight."

"Describe him," said Alex.

"Tall. Thin. Dark hair. Moustache." Father looked at Prof. Enderby. "Handsome. Can take his liquor."

Alex' lips grew tight.

"Slate."

 
We spent the rest of the evening looking for more devices, from the top of the observation deck to the coal bunkers. We found nothing. This did not make us feel any safer, though. We went to sleep hoping and praying that no more infernal devices were on board.

Riley returned at the stroke of midnight, thunder clouds floating over his head. We told him the news and he mentally added it to the pile of other things that displeased him.

"Let's go," said Riley.

"Go where?" I said.

"Paris," said Riley. "Boreas is going already. They're going back to Arkham."

"Why?"

Riley growled. "Looking for another hideout. Listen Tennant, I spent all day talking to idiots and goddamn aparatchik. I'm tired, I'm going to bed. Get this bag into the air and follow Boreas, will you?"

Well.

If you put it like that, how can we refuse?

 

Philip Tennant: Old gods, absent friends, and the season of mists

Back to Paris - The rainbow ladies - Disturbing news from Boreas - Right in the head

 

---

 

BIOLOGY LESSONS FROM PROFESSOR BRASSICA

 

Linda Davenport reporting

 

Following the departure of Professor Wadcroft on an expedition, we are now being taught Biology by Professor Brassica, who also teaches Homoeopathy. Her lessons are most enlightening. Where Wadcroft followed the teachings of such recent upstarts as Carl Linnaeus and Charles Darwin, Professor Brassica feels more comfortable with the tried and tested theories of such ancient sages as Anaximander and Aristotle, who postulate the theories of spontaneous generation. Theories, this publication feels, that have not aged as well as they might have.

 

Your reporter happened to run into Professor Lowe of Alchemy, who may have muttered words sounding similar to "Oh bugger, the woman is at it again." Though we must stress that these words were overheard while walking away and we may well have misheard them.

 

One cannot help but feel that in the interest of consistency, it would be good if different professors at least used the same teaching materials. More on this story as it develops.

 

---

 
Our Lady was once more floating among the clouds, making for Paris, retracing our steps. It was hard to see our journey to Russia as anything other than a complete failure. We had met the enemy, and they had laughed in our faces and shown us a future of death and suffering. At least I now knew myself what Magister Slate looked like. We had avoided going down in flames due to Carl's clear head, and maybe the enemy's incompetence in making bombs. We had acquired two cases of high explosive that would probably serve us well at some point. Still we had been outmaneuvered at every possible turn. It boiled my blood to think how they had managed to find out so much about us. My brave strong daughter had told them under torture. For that, there could be no forgiveness, no quarter. The stump of my leg started to itch, and I shifted my weight from my left to my right. I had by now grown used to the metal replacement, and fewer and fewer people even noticed anything when they saw me walk.

Lady I's engines, named Iris and Itzel by my daughter-in-law, ran on steady and strong. I turned my gaze to the large bulk of the airship Boreas floating next to us, going at full steam while we were almost idling. Our Ladies were the strongest and most advanced engines that our enigmatic Mr. Andrew Parsons had ever made. Rather than the slow ponderous pumping action of other steam engines, they whirled, at a rate too fast for the eye to follow. Steam pushed blades like those of a windmill, widening from start to end to extract every last scrap of power from each puff of steam we fed them. An invention of Charles Algernon Parsons, Andrew's grandfather, perfected by him. A triumph of mechanical engineering for which Andrew would never gain the renown that he deserved. By naming these engines after the only two women I had ever loved, except for my daughter, of course, Fatin had transformed them. They were no longer the mere metal constructions they once were. They had gained in my mind the identities of Iris, who had inspired me to walk the jungles of two, no three continents in her company, and Itzel, who had shown me that even with my damaged body, I could still move forward.

As I watched Lady I part the clouds before her, I reflected that these two remarkable women, even from beyond the grave, beyond the veil of time, were still thrusting me forward on the path that I must tread.

 

---

 
Carl came onto the bridge to relieve me. He took the helm with only a quiet reminder of the course and a quick check of the instruments.

"Good watch," I said.

"Good night, Father."

I walked to the galley, to find Alexandra already there, boiling milk in a pan. I stepped over to the cupboard, looking for the spices I used to make xocolatl, a drink I had grown to like during my stay in the heathen city of Anctapolepl. While it does contain cocoa powder, it is only a distant relative to our English cup of cocoa, containing a variety of spices and most importantly, hot chillies. I had prepared a mixture of the spices, ready to boil.

"Alexandra? I can't find the tin of spices. Did you use them?"

She shook her head. "Strangely, I don't need my cup of cocoa to set my throat on fire."

I looked better, and now found the tin behind a few others. I put a saucepan of water on next to Alexandra's milk and dropped in a carefully measured portion. Alexandra leaned against the wall watching me over the rim of her cup. The water came to the boil, and I added cocoa powder, stirring quickly. I had bought a big bag from a street vendor in South America, before I left for England. I sipped the hot drink, felt the heat of it in my stomach.

Lady Itzel, who nursed me when I had lost my leg, first introduced me to the bitter water. I must admit that it had been a bit of an acquired taste, but if a beautiful woman offers you a drink, you do not refuse it. With time, as I got used to the new state of my body and mind, I grew to like it, and now I dreaded the day when I would run out. People had suggested extract of vanilla as a substitute, and chillies grow even in our cold land, but it would not be the same. With the warmth of the drink, I remembered the warmth of Itzel's company. She had been the most remarkable woman I had ever met, blessed with prodigious powers of recall. She could repeat, perfectly, everything she ever saw or heard, even my own English ramblings. The Lord's prayer, uttered in desperation when I thought that the loss of my leg would be the end of me. Carroll's nonsensical poem Jabberwocky. How I had wanted to take her with me, fly over the Atlantic Ocean with her, back to England, and have her drink deep of the words of poets and scientists alike, and watch her flourish.

The Gods had a different purpose for her. My limited engineering knowledge was not enough to restore the kingdom of Anctapolepl to its former glory. To do that, I would need the ear of the Gods themselves. That was to be Itzel's task. She would memorise all my questions, and then rise, walk the path of Sunlight in reverse, to great Huitzilopochtli, that he might answer them. That is the poetic way of putting it. What really happened was that the priests held her down, willing and determined to the very last. They cut open her stomach with an obsidian knife, and ripped out her heart, to offer it, still beating, to their despicable god.

In revenge, I had destroyed them. The King, his depraved priests, all the aristocracy, in a mighty blast of all the gunpower I had made in all the years I was there. It would have been nice to think that this act of destruction freed up the way for more enlightened ways. The truth was that the citizens of Anctapolepl looked at the ruins of their old loathsome regime, and replaced it with a new loathsome regime. Human sacrifices most likely resumed the day after I left to return to civilisation. Now and then, I wondered what the City of Anctapolepl now looked like. But never for long.

 
Alexandra yawned, said goodnight, and went back to her cabin. I washed up the pans, put them away, and went to my own bed.

In the middle of the night I woke up, or I think I did. Someone was calling my name, a woman's voice, with a lilt that I had not heard in a year. I looked up, and sitting on my bed, in the place that my absent leg would have occupied, sat...

"Itzel?"

"Good evening, Philip Tennant."

I thought of pinching myself, but decided that if this was a dream, I didn't want to wake up. I searched for words, could find none.

"You are well, I hope?"

"I... I am." I hesitated. "How are you?"

Her lips parted in that smile I remembered so well. "I sit at the right hand of Huitzilopochtli, to do His bidding."

"Are you here at His behest?"

"No. I wanted to see you, and here I am."

"Am I dreaming?"

She laughed. "If it comforts you to think so, then yes you are. There is someone else here to see you."

"Someone..."

I looked round, and on the other bed, hands in her lap, a little grin on her face, sat my beloved wife Iris, dead for so many years, her body buried in a shallow grave by the Kasai river. I spoke her name softly.

"Philip." She looked round. "You bought an airship? How utterly wonderful! Oh, I wish you'd thought of that when I was still alive. Tell me. What does it feel like, living among the clouds?"

"It's wonderful," I said. "Alexandra and Carl are with me. We live everywhere. The freedom is... limitless."

"How did you ever afford such a thing?"

"I sold the house in Windsor Gardens. And also..." I looked at Itzel, who raised an eyebrow. "I found some gold."

"Found?" A gentle, yet somehow sarcastic light shone in Itzel's eyes. "You were given it by King Ilhicamena, Philip Tennant. A golden statue of my Lord. You melted it down into small bars that were easier for an alpaca to carry."

"I used some on the King's axe," I said.

It was a weak excuse. Steel does not benefit from mixing with gold, any more than a church bell benefits from the silver coins gathered from the people 'to strengthen the iron'.

"It was a beautiful axe," said Itzel. "Even though he never wielded it in glorious battle."

Iris chuckled. "If Philip really melted gold into it, then that is probably for the best."

"King Ilhicamena did his duty by Huitzilopochtli. As did his priests, whatever else they did." Itzel looked into my eyes with only the slightest shimmer of reproach. "As did I."

I bowed my head. "I am sorry."

"Do not apologise, Philip Tennant." Itzel's voice was soft and kind as I remembered it, when I did not deserve any such kindness. She reached out and put her fingers under my chin. I looked up. "Your life is not yet at an end, and Huitzilopochtli still has His plans for you. They will be fulfilled."

"I could not save you." I reached out for her hand, but she dropped it into her lap before I could touch it. "I would have taken you away from that place if I could have."

"But I am saved," said Itzel. "I rode the sunlight to Him, just as ordained."

On the other bed, Iris took a breath. "You were sacrificed? That's horrible!"

In my mind, I once more heard Itzel's scream as the priest cut into her flesh. I had not seen it, had only seen her dead body rolling down the stairs from the temple, and then the screams of others as they met their fate.

Itzel touched her stomach, at the edge of her ribs, and shivered. "There was pain. The priest worked slowly, to test my resolve. I thought of you, Philip Tennant, and held on. I thought of the gifts we shared the night before."

"Gifts?" said Iris. "What gifts?"

Itzel's dark eyes gleamed at Iris, until she understood.

"Ah."

I looked at Iris, took a deep breath. "I am sorry."

Iris suddenly laughed. "No you're not, my love. Not even a little."

She stood up, walked over to me, touched my face. "The words are as long as you both shall live. I am dead, my love. You have kept your promise. I do not grudge you your gifts." She glanced at Itzel. "Good gifts?"

"Very," said Itzel, glad to change the subject.

"Good," said Iris.

I watched as the two women looked into each other's eyes, forgetting for the moment I was even there. They both looked down on me. Laughing at me. Itzel blinked, looked at my cabin door. The laugh vanished from her lips.

"You are needed, Philip Tennant."

"Needed? Where?"

"On the bridge," said Iris. "Put your leg on and go."

I hesitated.

"Go, Philip Tennant. We will be here when you return."

Iris laughed. "We have a lot to talk about."

 

---

 
I started awake, sat up straight in bed. I reached out for my metal leg. Putting it on, fastening the straps round my thigh, was a matter of routine. I thought of what had happened. A dream? A vision? I could still feel Iris' hand on my cheek. As I pulled on my robe, I glanced at the pictures of Iris and Itzel and stopped. Both pictures had been en face. Now, they were facing each other. Smiling at each other as if enjoying a private talk about me.

I turned round, opened my cabin door to walk to the bridge. As I looked back once more, the two ladies' eyes were on me. I almost imagined hearing Iris' voice, 'Go!'

I walked to the bridge. As I passed the machine rooms, I imagined I could hear women laughing inside. I closed my eyes tightly, opened them again, and all was quiet except for the drone of the engines. Fatin was at the helm. Singing quietly to herself, she kept Lady I on course with tiny movements of her hand. She noticed me entering, and I saw her bright white teeth as she smiled at me.

"How is our Lady?"

"She is happy," said Fatin. "She likes having a friend to fly with. He is big and strong, and she is small and fast. Itzel and Iris are walking in the moonlight, playing with the clouds like I stir up the waters of the River and feel the wet sand on my toes."

I looked at Fatin's bare feet on the patterned metal of the bridge floor. She always took off her boots when steering, to better feel the moods of our airship. She looked out of the window ahead, watched the clouds. She was by far the best pilot of any of us, feeling, becoming Lady I. As soon as the pale palms of her hands touched the controls, her mind extended itself into every corner of the ship. I watched her a while, completely absorbed in her work. Poor Itzel would never see England, or airships, except in my dreams. But Fatin, daughter of Africa, possessing a talent she would never have used in her native lands, was here, singing to Itzel, and to Iris, in her soft voice. I felt strangely at peace with that situation as Fatin gently led Lady I on through the moonlit clouds..

 
There was a bright light from Boreas next to us, blinking the sign for "Attention". She slowed down, stopped. Fatin uncoupled the starboard propeller, reversed its pitch, re-engaged it, making Lady I turn as she slowed down. I stepped out towards the Aldis light and lit it.

MASTER. ?

After a moment, Boreas' Aldis light flashed on, and their navigator signalled us.

NAV. MAN OVERBOARD.

"What has happened?" Fatin held Lady I steady in the slight breeze.

"Someone has fallen off Boreas," I replied. "Poor bastard."

Boreas deflated her envelopes and started to descend. As we watched, her search lights came on, the bright white circles probing the ground in a regular pattern of widening circles until they stopped and held in their gaze a specific point where there was a dark spot in the snow. Boreas descended further, and we could see men with a stretcher on ropes. They picked up their fallen comrade, then were winched back up into the main gondola. To show their navigator where we were, I turned on our own search light. Boreas sailed a few hundred yards away to be clear of us, then inflated and rose slowly to their previous height. They turned back to their original course, and Fatin put us back in the same spot where we were before. I aimed the Aldis light at Boreas.

MASTER. SITUATION?

NAV. ABLE AIRMAN O'ROURKE DECEASED IN FALL.

I sighed, and sent a short message.

MASTER. CONDOLENCES TO YOUR CREW.

NAV. ACK THANK YOU. COURSE ESE.

MASTER. CONFIRM COURSE ESE. FOLLOWING.

 
"Captain Philip?" said Fatin. "How can someone fall off? The doors are closed, yes?"

"I don't know. I suppose Gaskin will tell us." I put a hand on Fatin's shoulder. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes please."

 
On a steam engined ship, there is never a shortage of boiling water. I poured mugs of tea for Fatin and myself. I leaned against the ailleron controls, staring into the clouds.

"I dreamed of my wife tonight," I said. "She and Itzel. I talked to them."

"I often talk to the people in my tribe," said Fatin. "They walk through the forest in my head. I ask them for news. They always say they are well. I think that is because I want them to be well. Kinsi will have a baby by now. It will be the most beautiful little girl, and she will be strong and healthy like Kinsi."

"It felt so real," I said. "More vivid than any dream I have ever had before."

"Was it good to talk to them?"

I thought back. "Yes. Yes it was."

"Then go back and find them again. Lady I will take us to the morning."

I put down my teacup, touched Fatin's shoulder.

"Good watch," I said.

 
As I walked back into my cabin, I found Iris and Itzel, still talking.

"I am named after the Rainbow Lady," said Itzel.

"What a coincidence! My name means 'rainbow', but it's also a flower."

Iris noticed me. "Hello Philip. Do you like rainbows?"

"Every woman I have ever loved was named after them," I said. "Except Alexandra."

I moved towards my bed, and Itzel got out of my way. I sat down and unstrapped my leg. I put it in the umbrella stand I had saved from our house in Windsor Gardens.

"You wanted another son, didn't you?" said Iris.

"I did." I pulled up the blankets. Iris and Itzel were looking at me as I was looking at them. Was I going mad? If so, it was a gentle madness. I could live with it.

"But Alexandra and Carl are all that I could have hoped for. Good night, Ladies."

 

---

 
When I woke up the next morning, Itzel and Iris were gone. They had looked the way I remembered them both, in the fullness of their health, strength and beauty. I dressed in my Captain's outfit, strapped on my leg, then stood for a few moments in front of their pictures. The pictures looked like they always had. Or did they? I bent over to Iris' face, almost expecting her to snap her teeth at my nose as she had sometimes done when I tried to kiss her. Nothing happened. I turned round and left my cabin.

I had a quick breakfast, just a couple of bacon sandwiches and tea, and then I went to the bridge to relieve Miss Brenda Lee at the wheel. She had no problem keeping our Lady on course, but this was a busy piece of sky. A few moments later, Carl and Alexandra joined us. Boreas hooked herself up to one of the quick transit spaces. We put Lady I nearer the edge of the airport. We would be staying here a few days, to decide what we would do.

As soon as our Lady was moored securely to a post between two other airships, Riley and I made our way to Boreas, both limping. We were invited on board, and met Captain Gaskin and his navigator, a young man named Jones. The sun not yet being above the yard-arm, we were offered cups of coffee which we accepted for politeness' sake.

"Good morning, Sir," I said. "I wanted to offer our condolences for your loss in person."

"Thank you Sir." Gaskin gave us a nod. "Ugly business."

Riley, having no patience for niceties, came straight to the heart of the matter. "Was this an accident?"

Gaskin stared at the coffee cup between his hands. "Able Airman O'Rourke and Airman Wilkins were checking the oil levels on the port aft propeller. There is a crawlspace from the hull to the propellers, with an iron cage. Airmen are expected to crawl out to the pod, but many find it more convenient to walk along the outside. We try to stamp out the practice, but... well. O'Rourke was carrying the oil can, which had grown slippery through use. According to Wilkins, he dropped it and it went flying."

"And he fell trying to catch it?" I said.

"Not quite," said Navigator Jones. "Wilkins watched it happen. According to him, O'Rourke said, Oh Bugger! Well I'm not going back for another can me lad. And then he unclipped his safety line and stepped down to get it!"

Riley sneered. "And you believe that?"

Gaskin shrugged. "Why would he lie?"

"Because it was his job to make sure that O'Rourke had his safety line on. That's why you send out two men and only one can of oil ain't that so?" Riley put down his cup. "What if he'd been careless? Forgot to tell Paddy his line wasn't on? He'd be up in front of a firing squad now wouldn't he?"

Gaskin shook his head. "There are more plausible lies Wilkins could have told. There is a continuous rail running along the inside of the cage, but to use it from the outside, you have to unclip your line to get past the cage bars. O'Rourke could have slipped while his line was out."

"Then maybe he was stupid and lying?"

Navigator Jones scowled at Riley. "You may not believe this, Riley, but our airmen want to enjoy their pay on the ground. They take their personal safety very seriously because not falling to your death is a favourite pastime. My airmen are not idiots."

"Well one of them was," said Riley. "Maybe he'd been hitting the bottle, being Irish and all?"

Gaskin gave Riley a cold hard look. "O'Rourke's father drank himself to death in the Depression. He never touched anything stronger than tea. He was a teetotaller through and through."

"Did he have any enemies on board?" I asked.

Captain Gaskin shook his head. "Absolutely not. He was well liked and respected by all."

Navigator Jones laughed quietly. "We held a wake for him. We only drank tea in his honour. What he would have had to say if we'd broken out the Whiskey, I cannot even begin to think."

Captain Gaskin held up the coffee pot. We all politely declined, and he refilled his mug. "We're treating Mr. O'Rourke's death as unexplained, but not suspicious. May God rest his soul."

"Where are you going now?" I said.

"We will be returning to Arkham by way of Dublin to return O'Rourke's body to his next of kin. One of Prometheus' hideouts was mentioned on the list your colleagues recovered. We have already sent Mr. Bennett to keep an eye on the Paris equipment. Feel free to visit him if you wish. He has been told your names."

"We may do that," I said. "To be honest, we are at a loss where to go next."

"Are you hunting or running?"

I thought of all the trouble Slate had put us through.

"Hunting," I said.

"The Russian trail has gone cold," said Captain Gaskin. "I suggest you try to find another thread here. We will do the same at Arkham."

"We will. Good hunting."

 

---

 
We had raised Lady I as far as her mooring lines would reach, and were watching the airship Boreas set off in a Westerly direction through the mounted telescopes. No doubt we would see them again. I called all hands to the mess hall. I looked at all the faces, serious, concerned, but none of them afraid.

"My friends," I said, "We have woefully underestimated our enemy. They have been one step ahead of us throughout."

Riley sneered. "Gosh, you think?"

"Shut up, Riley."

"So far, the bastards have been spying on us in Paris. They were in Kirov before we were. They had packed their bags and left Moscow and damn near killed the lot of us. A dime gets you a dollar they have something to do with that Boreas Paddy trying to fly."

"O'Rourke," said Enderby. "His name was O'Rourke."

"Naming the recently dead, Professor? I thought better of you." He turned back to us. "You goddamn amateurs haven't nearly been careful enough. Prometheus is breathing down your neck, and you go on a shopping trip? They could have whacked the lot of you then and there. The only reason half of you are still breathing is that Slate likes to play cat and mouse. And when you're playing that game..." He put his fists on the table, glared at us. "Don't be the mouse."

"Point taken, Riley." I looked round the table. "From now on, crew and passengers, we are under martial law. No more shore leave, I'm afraid. We have five people who can handle firearms. Two of these are to stay on board at all times."

"Six Captain," said Wadcroft, and grinned. "One does not teach Alchemy classes when one cannot shoot students about to blow up the whole laboratory."

"Seven," said Enderby. "If I didn't know one end of a gun from the other, there would have been a very fat chupacabra somewhere in Peru."

"Thank you, Professors. Miss Felicia?"

"Horrid things, guns." If she was scared, she didn't show it. "Still, I'd rather be on the right end of one."

"Andrew?"

I looked at him. He was shaking. He closed his eyes, started to rock back and forth. Miss Felicia shot me a dark look and stood next to him. She patted his cheek and he looked up at her, almost pleading.

"The captain is joking Andrew. You will not need to touch a gun." She looked deep into his eyes. "I promise. Come on. You need to replace the taps in the girls' cabin. I've just decided I liked the old ones better."

Miss Felicia gently led Andrew away, to replace the new taps with old ones. I kicked myself. Andrew Parsons was more vulnerable than I realised.

"Well, there's one non-combatant," said Riley.

"That's a volunteer's attitude, Riley." I looked round the table. "Who else is going to the Paris hideout?"

Brenda raised her hand. So did Alexandra.

"Good. Dress warmly, there's a storm coming."

 

Godfrey Pike: Gone fishing

Career choices - Dr. Clifford Parker - Giver of Quests

 

---

 

PROF. DANFORTH CANCELS GUEST LECTURE DUE TO ILLNESS

 

Rina Prescott reporting

 

This Wednesday's guest lecture, scheduled to be given by Prof. Dr. Danforth of Miskatonic University in Arkham, has been cancelled owing to the Professor unexpectedly falling ill. However, your reporter was lucky enough to secure a brief interview with the professor just before, and gain a little insight into the lecture's subject. The lecture was called "Mapping the mountains of Thought," and would have discussed the study of the Human psyche. Within the shifting sands of our thought processes, roads and landmarks exist, commonality between all Human beings. Prof. Danforth explained to me that far from being the intractable collection of completely original properties we like to think it is, the human mind shares a great many things with that of its fellows. For instance, Good and Evil are universal and absolute between all human beings, as are things like beauty.

 

"But Professor," I said. "Beauty is famously in the eye of the beholder. What is beautiful to one, is ugly to another. Take a lily for instance. I personally cannot stand the things, but my friend would want to be buried under them. How do you explain that?"

 

"Take a lily," repeated the professor. "Take a lily. Take a lily!" There was a slightly otherworldly quality to his voice, as he kept repeating the phrase over and over again. He began to shake, and at that point I felt it would be best if I left him to prepare his lecture.

 

The Algernon Clarion would like to take this opportunity to wish the Professor a speedy recovery. We hope that we will at some point be able to enjoy his fascinating insights into the Human mind.

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
Things have been quiet of late, here at Algernon University. There have been no break-ins, no murderous rampages, no attempts to get spies on our payroll, nothing. Prometheus seem to have vanished. But as the estimable Sherlock Holmes has often taught us, until we have a corpse, anything is possible. Despite blowing up a few of their hiding places, we have done nothing that would explain their absence. Maybe evildoers have founded a union, with regular vacations, and health and safety rules. Given the shameful treatment of henchmen, Winston, it would not be a moment too soon.

In order to avoid sending you blank sheets of paper, I can tell you that the Algernon Rifle Club is still going, though I am sad to say that membership is down. The novelty has worn off I suppose, and becoming good enough to win tournaments like we did last year takes time and dedication. Maybe the realisation what firearms are ultimately for as demonstrated in the Unpleasantness has dampened enthusiasm.

I have taken it upon myself to supervise what I still consider the hard core of the Rifle Club. Miss Florence Albrecht, Mr. Nigel Arterton, Miss Christa Whelan, Miss Carrie StJohn, and Bertram Greenford are still here. I am not allowing them to let their skills slip. Having tasted victory over that horrid woman at Folkestone, I am hungry for more. And that, Winston, brings me to my star player. The girl who hit nothing but bullseyes the whole tournament. Miss Jocelyn Vale.

Jocelyn still vies with Carrie for the position of best shot in the club. She has managed to miss once or twice, but she has given up being a vampire, which one cannot blame her for. There is a reason I bring her up here.

 
Last Wednesday, I was supervising my core members at the range, and noticed that Nigel was teaching a new girl, Fanny, Fennie, a name like that. He was putting her hands on the right place of the rifle, helping her with her stance, generally making a spectacle of themselves, to be honest. Two booths over, Jocelyn was practicing rapid fire. I know my body language, Winston. I am quite fluent in it, and in her mind Miss Vale was clearly firing at things other than the target. I surmise that relations between Nigel and Jocelyn are not what they were at the tournament. When it became dark I called my final cease-fire, and when all the rifles had been brushed and stored to Rifle Club Rules, Nigel left with Fenny. Jocelyn hung back as I locked up the gate. She came up to me, a question clearly burning on her lips.

"Jocelyn," I said. "Can I help you?"

"Doctor..." She fell silent, looked away for a few moments.

"Only honorary, my dear," I said.

She laughed, took a breath, and spilled it.

"What do you do if you want to become a spy? Like you?"

"What you do," I said, "is have a little lie-down and a cup of tea until it passes."

With the question out, Jocelyn became bolder.

"I did that, Doctor Pike. I still want to do it."

"In that case, you need to have your head seen to. I'll write you a note for Dr. Schmidt."

"Him again? All he does is ask me questions about my mother he'd be better off asking her himself. I already have a note from him saying I am sane." A dark edge crept into her voice. "In his own handwriting. Signed in blood."

I gave her a severe look. "Whose blood, Jocelyn?"

"Don't know her name," said Jocelyn. "She volunteered. Very nice of her."

We looked into each other's eyes. She burst out laughing first.

"Assuming you are serious. Why would you want to become a spy of all things?" She had that look in her eyes, Winston. That desire of Great Adventure, the exciting life of the daring agent, the mystery, the glamour. The lie. "It's not about, well..." I looked meaningfully in the direction where Love's young dream had just left.

Jocelyn scowled. "He can knock her up for all I care. This isn't about him. This is about me. I don't want to end up in some stuffy office, or in some factory, or staying at home wiping babies' noses."

"Hah. Noses aren't the worst of it."

"Don't I know it. I have a little after-thought of a sister. Mom made me do..." She shivered, and I shivered with her. "Nappies."

"The horror," I said, in a whisper. "Come with me to my room, Jocelyn."

 
We set off for the main building, across the courtyard, to my study and bedroom. I folded out a chair for Jocelyn and sat down at my desk, looking at her. Interrogation Posture number one, with steepled fingers. It never fails to make people want to talk, does it?

"I suppose you want to know why I want to be a spy?"

I said nothing, waited. Jocelyn stared at my hands for a while.

"I don't like where I'm going," she said. "My majors are English Literature, Maths, Biology." She sneered. "Wadcroft's left, we got Professor Brassica for Biology now, and she's a bloody washout."

"You could become a physician with that package. A pharmacist."

"Yes, in about twenty years. If I'm lucky." She shook her head.

"And the only alternative is espionage? It's not as glamorous as you think, you know."

"Better than ending up like another brick in the wall. When I die, I want people to know who I was, not one of the hundreds of girls in the pill factory." She looked at me. "What made you want to be a spy?"

I closed my eyes a moment. "I'm not just a spy. I'm an old spy, which is rare. I'm an old retired spy, which is even rarer. There are jokes going round about the legendary nature of the Service's pension, because nobody lives to claim it. I have. And of my friends and colleagues, maybe a handfull with me."

Jocelyn pulled her chair a bit closer. "That's why you didn't want to be a spy. You haven't told me why you did."

"Rolled into it, my dear. I was a beat copper some time in the Pleistocene, because so was my father, and his father before him. Purely by accident, I found evidence of traders in women for use in brothels. The Secret Service got involved, I managed not to make an idiot of myself, and they offered me a job. I took it because I knew as much about the Service as you do now."

"What did you do?"

Well Winston, normally under these circumstances, one barks: "I will ask the questions." It's traditional. But she seemed genuinely interested.

"I watched things," I said. "First, at Heath Row, I watched airships coming and leaving, and the people on them. Then ships at the harbours, carrying all kinds of..." I took a moment to choose my words. "Contraband. Then I did a few years in the Colonies, before they gained their independence. Counter-insurgency."

"You were hunting assassins?" Jocelyn grinned brightly, and I felt a wave of disgust pass over me.

I wish I hadn't mentioned the Colonies, Winston. We would all like to call that episode in British history a 'moral grey area', but the people who were there know better. We were not the heroes in those places, and I was glad to see the end of it. I came off easily, all things considered.

"Yes. Though it was not what you think."

"I want to do that, Doctor," said Jocelyn, and the sheer enthusiasm in her voice broke my heart. "People came in this year to hurt us, and it was you who stopped them. Nobody got killed, and if they hadn't all tried to fit through the same doors at the same time, nobody would have got hurt either."

"You shot one of the attackers," I said.

"Yes. And if I hadn't, then he would have stabbed Prof Enderby." She looked out of the window for a moment. "And if I'd been better at spying, then that man wouldn't have gotten his hands on Enderby at all." Dark eyes gleamed at me. "I want to be a good spy."

 
Winston, you know as well as I do what the only good spy is. I could have put her off easily. I could have told her stories about what can happen to pretty little girl spies. What could happen to her if she'd go down this path, or even worse, what she would be forced to do to other pretty little girl spies. I could have easily turned her stomach, Winston. Given her nightmares for months to come. But I didn't.

Because underneath all the youthful enthusiasm, the naive idealism, the innocence that will be the first thing to die in this job, I think she would be good at this. Back in Folkestone, I watched her play the role of a vampire, using her occult powers to never miss. A bloody vampire, Winston, and she played it believably! Being a damn good shot with a rifle doesn't hurt either. In a few years, she could be an asset to our Service.

I am in two minds. She has a talent, but if she were to develop that talent and put it to its proper use, then many things I admire in her would vanish in this meat grinder of a business of ours. Inevitably, she would become one of us, Winston. And all things considered, I don't wish that on anyone.

 
Yours,

Godfrey.

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
I had a visitor today. One of our professors of Physics named Clifford B. Parker, who specialises in all things to do with lightening, electricity, and magnetism. It is an obscure, nearly occult subject, trying to study the Unseen. As such, it is held in the same regard as Homoeopathy and Crypto-zoology. He is a portly man with a long wiry beard, and he bears the nickname "Sparker". The poor man has the most atrocious stammer. He accosted me in the teachers' cafeteria, bearing papers.

"P-p-professor P-p-pike?"

Good Lord. Winston, if he has problems pronouncing the P, we're not going to be good friends.

"Yes?"

"I've been w-" He had to force the word out. "Working on the P-p-prometheus device."

Prometheus is not a topic for the cafeteria, so I invited him to my room. I keep a clean desk as a habit, and he wasted no time covering it in papers. I saw formulae, schematic drawings, eldritch runes.

"Have you found out what this machine is?"

"Of c-c-course, he said. "It is an amplitude-modulated waveform generator with a magnetically operated dial and indicator assembly, operating at frequencies between one hundred and fifty, and three hundred million cycles per second. It has three operators. Reset, advance, and..." He looked at me through his thick glasses. "B-b-boom."

"Ah."

"They have operational frequencies that are superimposed on the carrier wave, and I assume are in the audible range. The transmitter opens up a carrier wave, which makes the receiver light up an indicator..."

And at that point he launched into a long litany of unworldly terms, not unlike I've been forced to endure from our Homoeopathy professor. He lost me about three sentences in, which was a shame, because as he spoke in Electrick, he completely lost his stammer. I made small encouraging noises until he finally stopped.

"So when the transmitter wants to send an E, it sends a reset signal first, and then five advance signals. A-B-C-D-E. The dial on the receiver moves as it receives each pulse, and the operator can see it."

"Very good," I said. "But what use is all this?"

I'll stop quoting him verbatim, Winston, it takes my breath away even to think about it. The gist of it was that he had a good understanding of the workings of the Prometheus web over the world. Sadly, the fire had destroyed some of the more delicate organs, so he could not properly probe the spells and incantations upon them. If it weren't for young Carl Tennant's indiscretion in playing with the machines, he might build a device that could listen in on the conversations of our enemies. I told him that we had a working specimen in Paris, and he looked at me dumbfounded.

"W-w-why didn't you tell me? With a w-working model..." Sorry Winston.

With a working model he could find out what eyes of newt and wing of bat he might need to copy Prometheus' wizardries. I may have missed some of the subtleties. I asked him if he wanted to go to Paris and visit our Arkham brethren, and he asked me if the Pope was Catholic.

 
He would have run off immediately to pack his magical apparatus and crystal balls, but I told him that I might have something else to interest him. Just that morning, I had received from Eugene Vidocq of the French Secret Service one of the documents left behind by the late Dr. Dupont, written during his tenure with Magister Slate. It came to a hefty stack of paper. In French of course, but Dr. Sparker could look at the pictures, and algebra is universal.

"What is it?" I asked.

"An engine," said Sparker. "An electric engine, based on the p-power of magnetism." He leafed through the pages. "Looks like he knew what he was doing. Look." Parker showed me a drawing. "He started out with two electro-magnets, attracting and repelling. But that way, you cannot determine which way the engine runs, so he used more magnets, so that whenever the rotor neared one of the stators, the next would engage, creating continuous motion, and the engine will run forward every time you turn it on. Nice."

He leafed through more of the pages, and frowned at an image of some sort of funnel, with wires all round. Bolts of lightening were drawn round it, and the drawing was titled Rayon de la Mort. Sparker scoffed.

"That's a load of t-t-t..." He pointed at the end of the funnel. "It's supposed to throw electricity at your enemy."

"Sounds unpleasant," I said. "You think it won't work?"

"Only if your t-t-t... enemy is nice enough to hold a w..." he breathed in deep. "Wire. Electricity flows. It needs a circuit." Sparker shook his head. "I'm sure Dupont didn't take this seriously." He looked up from the drawing. "C-can I have this?"

"Well, I was going to have this translated."

"B-by someone who c-c-can't tell their Amperes from their arsehole? I have a French exchange student. Good p-project for him."

"In that case, be my guest," I said.

"My students can analyse this while I'm away," said Sparker. "I'll go and p-p-p..."

"Pack," I said.

 
Things are moving, Winston. Let's make them move in the right direction.

 
Yours,

Godfrey.

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
Young Wainwright is back from his holidays in Norwich visiting his Mum. He came back bearing gifts of chocolate chip cookies, and Mrs. Wainwright is an artist. I filled him in on the happenings, and we both thought he'd be most useful in Khartoum, tying to find another one of these transmitter-receivers, since he has become such good friends with the Governor's son. The long-haul flights to the Orient go by way of Paris, so he could travel to Paris with our bearded wizard, look at a Device to learn what it looks like, then travel on. Sparker can fill him in on the technical details, what to look for, and so on. So off to the deserts he goes.

 
Meanwhile, some odd news has reached me regarding yet another scientist of the Unseen. Dr. Wilhelm Schmidt of Psychology was observed in the cafeteria reciting at full volume a German translation of 'The rime of the Ancient Mariner'. He has a rich deep speaking voice, and the performance was enjoyed by all. When asked what prompted this, he seemed a little confused. Mildly worrisome, but not dangerous as far as I can see. The stress of dealing with mad people may be getting to him.

 
Well. My professorial duties call me, and I have a lecture to prepare on the Prussian wars. I may cheat and just tell my students the story of when I marched from Bonn to Berlin with the Fuseliers. Immer gerade aus, Winston.

 
Yours,

Pike.

 

Agent Wainwright: Family matters

In the lair of the dragon - Eastern hospitality - A needle in a needle factory - Offer and honour - A mosque desecrated - Due care and attention

 

---

 

DANGEROUS WORDS, FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE

 

By Linda Davenport

 

There are apparently things, facts, truths, that will drive you insane simply by knowing them. Dangerous forbidden knowledge that is on the one hand evil, degenerate, and corrupting, while on the other hand being so compelling that but a single glimpse at it can devour you, awake inside you a hunger for more and more until you are drawn wholly into a whorl of depravity. There are those who take it upon themselves to protect their fellow humans from such damaging knowledge. Unselfishly, they will hide away manuscripts or burn them. Make sure that persons infected with such knowledge are not allowed to speak in our University, for the good of us all.

 

This is a dangerous path to take. One's decisions are only as good as one's information. Wilfully barring away information deemed hateful, but not other items, will directly affect one's thinking. Another danger is, who is assessing the information to see if it is fit for human consumption? To have direct control over the knowledge that someone is allowed to possess, is to posses that person. My soul already has a captain, and I am that captain.

 

We need all information. We need to hear, read, see everything. When we were children, we thought like children, but today, as we prepare to take up our role in society, to take our turn at the helm, we have left childish things behind us. We can now be trusted with scissors. We can now be trusted with guns. And certainly, we can now be trusted with knowledge.

 

---

 
I had returned to Ipswich, replete with motherly love and good solid home-cooked food. One evening, she had invited Emma over for dinner, the daughter of one of her banker friends. Emma was charming, beautiful, unmarried, and several ranks beyond my means to ever maintain. I was a dashing and romantic Secret Agent, working for Her Majesty. The Queen, as Mother clarified. With one shared look, Emma and I came to the same conclusion: A joining of our Clans would have to be arranged by other means than marriage. Besides, I will only marry for True Love, and nothing else.

I made my way to the chambers of Dr. Pike. The old pensioner greeted me with cups of tea and more information about Prometheus. One of the local eggheads had figured out how their magic devices worked from the smouldering bits of the London hideout, and was now eager to observe one that was still in one piece. Dr. Pike ordered me to escort the gentleman to Paris before moving on to Khartoum. I reminded him that he was retired and had no business ordering me around, and he reminded me that he could still make my life hell, and wasn't Antarctica beautiful this time of year?

I met Dr. Clifford 'Sparker' Parker in the main hall, scene of many an expedition leaving to Foreign Parts. He handed me a large heavy toolcase, obviously taking me for a pack animal. Dr. Pike, tears in his old eyes, wished us Godspeed, and off we went.

A University carriage took us to Ipswich airport, where we boarded the afternoon flight to Paris. Dr. Parker installed himself behind a table in the restaurant, ordered a pitcher of ale, and started to read through a stack of documents. These were written by the researchers of the Hammond expedition, stolen by one of Slate's henchmen, and heavily annotated by Dr. Dupont. I had seen the poor man shot dead during our rescue attempt, and I felt a pang of guilt watching his work here.

Parker's awful stammer did not encourage conversation, so after a while, I left him to it and walked to a window to watch the North Sea roll away beneath us. In our jobs, we agents often have to fly, to the point where it becomes boring. We don't mind. Boring is often better than exciting.

The sun was setting, and I thought of Khartoum. Sparker might be interested in every little detail of the machine, but my main concern was the self-destruct mechanism, designed to destroy the machine and any hapless fool that meddled with it. The one in France had been rendered safe, but any device in Khartoum would fall to me. I wasn't being paid enough for this. If I were, I could afford to marry Emma the Banker's daughter. She would be a beautiful and rich young widow.

 
When we landed in Paris, it was dark. Sparker picked up one of his toolboxes, expected me to pick up the other one. I gave him a weary look and did. We went through the Douane, showed our papers, and were welcomed into the City. Sparker gave me the address, I looked it up in the guide, which is French for 'guide'. I hailed a carriage, and had the driver drop us off a few streets away, a habit born out of a well developed survival instinct. We walked up to a terraced house, in the middle of a street lined with birch trees. I handed Sparker his toolbox back and told him to knock while I stood to one side, ready to explode into action should the occupants turn nasty. He gave me a look.

"D-do you think they'll t-t-try..."

"We can only hope," I said. "I will avenge you if you fall."

"Great."

With a last look at me, Sparker raised the knocker and let it fall. The door opened after only a moment, and we were greeted by a large man, who looked at us as if we had come to convert him to some religion or other.

"Who are you?"

I resisted the urge to ask him if he ever thought about Jesus.

"Wainwright and Parker, Algernon University. We're here about the device you have."

"What's the weather like in Ipswich," he said.

"Fire and brimstone, with clouds of acid later in the day."

That was the challenge and password. The man nodded and stepped back.

"Come on in."

Now that Sparker thought he wasn't going to die, he pulled up the straps on his toolboxes and trotted in. The man looked at me as if I hadn't trained my pet properly.

"Bennett," he said. "I expect you'll be wanting to see the Thing, then?"

"Yes please," said Sparker. A hungry light was in his eyes.

Bennett opened the door to the basement and walked down the stairs, Sparker on his tail.

"What are you going to do with it?" said Bennett.

"Take it to bits," said Sparker.

 
The basement was cramped, and lit with a mysterious light coming from a glass jar hanging from the ceiling on a wire. There was a table covered in notes of messages that Bennett had spent most of hs time writing down. Sparker gathered them all up in a neat stack, which he handed to Bennett. The Device was almost like the one that had nearly killed me and Carl Tennant in London, a large wooden cabinet on top of a table. In the middle was the large clock with letters and numbers. Several lights were blinking on the front of the cabinet, but instead of the little toggles we had seen in London, there was a single rotary knob with an arrow currently pointing at "KHARTUMEN".

"Light comes on when one of the cities is sending," said Bennett. "But it's impossible to see what they're saying. It's all gibberish. Look." He showed me one of his pieces of paper.

 

GURER VF AB BGURE YNATHNTR OHG SERAPU

 

GUVF FCRPVRF UNF NYJNLF ORRA RKGVAPG

 
"Gives me the creeps, it does. Maybe it's one of those things that drives you insane when you read it. Maybe they're trying to drive me insane!"

"Ah! I've found the mains supply!"

We looked at Sparker, who had crawled under the table with a light.

"T-t-there is a fortune in lead acid batteries down there. I'll d-d-disconnect it now, unless someone has something to say?"

He felt round on the top of the table for a screwdriver wrapped in gutta percha. The next moment, all the lights went out except the lantern under the desk.

"Oh."

Bennett gave me a weary look, then turned back to Sparker. "I'll go and get some lights then, shall I?"

"Yesplease," said Sparker.

He held out his lantern to me, and I took it. University Spy, Airway Porter, and now Lamp Holder to the Grand Wizard. The glamorous life of the secret agent. Sparker peered at the side of the cabinet, looking for God knows what.

"Let's get this panel off," said Sparker. "Does it come off? I think it does." He moved my hand so the light shone into his toolbox and pulled out a large screwdriver. He started to unscrew the side panel, dropping the screws onto the table. "Hmm. It's not coming off. Did I get all the screws? I think I did, unless... Ah. There's one under this piece of paper. Hah! Only to be removed by authorised personnel, it says. Am I? I'll assume I am." He peeled away the paper, undid the last screw. "There we are. Hang on, it's still not coming off. What am I missing? Is it glued in or something?"

"Uh, Parker..." I said. "Remember nobody's had this open before. There may be unpleasant devices inside. Traps. Bombs."

"Ooh, exciting," Parker put his screwdriver in the slit between panel and cabinet. "Will it go bang? Well, if it won't come willingly, I'll have to use..." He thumped the screwdriver with his hand. There was a crack and the panel came off. "Unreasonable force."

I waited a few moments for my heart to return to its proper place. Fiery death failed to happen to us. I put the lamp down with an expressive thump.

"Parker. You've seen the base in London, haven't you?"

"Yes. What about it?"

"The smouldering heaps."

"Yes? D-d-do you have a p-p-point?"

I pointed at the Device. "That place was burnt down by one of these things! So treat it with a little care, will you?"

"I have c-c-crawled over that thing. There was only one explosive d-device. The one they set off from K-k-kirov."

"Just because that thing didn't have any traps, doesn't mean this one doesn't. I have an old mother and haven't given her grandchildren yet."

Parker picked up the lamp and shone its light into the interior of the Doomsday device.

"Your moving story t-touches me deeply. Now shut up and let me do my job."

I moved a little closer to the door, and Sparker started to remove all the covers, revealing an interior filled with metal wires, small bottles, and other things less easily identifiable. It looked like the entrails of some unworldly creature, never meant to be seen by Human eyes. Sparker pulled out a fresh notebook and a pencil, and started to cover the pages in the occult symbols of his craft. Bennett returned with a bigger lantern, which at least took away some of the shadows. He leaned against the wall next to me, and we exchanged looks, clearly agreeing on the subject of Sparker's sanity. Bennett didn't cross himself, and neither did I.

Bennett pointed at our Wizard. "Is he going to be at it all night?"

"I daresay he will," I said.

Bennet gave a grunt. "I'll leave you to it then. It's close to midnight. Don't want to be here when the clock strikes midnight with all of this around."

"Smart man," said Sparker. "Something evil is moving w-within."

Bennett scowled. "I just don't like things you can't see or feel or touch. Uncanny things like that give me the willies."

"Here, hold this," said Sparker, holding out a thin metal wire wrapped in laquered cotton.

Bennett took it and yelped. He dropped the wire, shaking his hand. "You bastard!"

Sparker gave Bennett a piercing look. "C-can you feel it yet?" He continued rummaging about in the Device, now and then drawing on his notebook. "Electricity and Magnetism are basic forces that make the whole bloody Universe tick. Ignorant gits treating it like it's some kind of sorcery is really starting to get on my t-t-t..." He took a breath. "You don't think Gravity is deep sorcery do you? You just see things fall to the floor. So why is Electricity any different?"

Bennett said nothing, turned round and left, leaving me with a subtle and quick-to-anger wizard. I pulled the operator's chair up to the wall, sat down on it, leaned back, and dozed.

 
"Wainwright!"

I woke up to the sight of Sparker grinning at me, brandishing his notebook. I looked, and the table was covered in device parts, laid out straight and square in neat little rows.

"What time is it?" I said.

He frowned. "I don't know. Look. I know how it works!"

"Wonderful." I pulled out my watch. Four thirty! Times for decent folk to be fast asleep in bed.

"It's an amplitude-modulated electro-magnetic transmitter and receiver, but I already knew that."

"Then what is the sodding point? Couldn't it have waited till morning?"

"The point, my little ignorant friend, is that now I have had my probes on it, I know what frequency it operates at, and more importantly, what each frequency does."

Sparker showed me his notebook. At the top of the page were the words Hermes Device.

"You've named it?"

"Yes. After Hermes. B-because Hermes also sends messages."

"And they say a classic education isn't worth anything."

"Shut up and listen, W-wainwright."

He showed me a page full of numbers. One of the numbers was marked BOOM. For some reason, that interested me more than the others.

"Sparker. You do realise that you're not making any damn sense to me, don't you?"

"Then shut up and be enlightened." He turned to a fresh page and drew a squiggly line on it, neatly snaking its way from left to right. "That is what we call the carrier wave. The one for Paris is two hundred and forty kilocycles per second. Once the receiver hears that, it knows to start paying attention. Now once it does, the transmitter on the other side will start modulating the carrier, at a much lower frequency, say five hundred cycles per second." He drew another squiggly line below the first one, but the squiggles were larger and smaller from left to right. He drew a dotted squiggle on top of the first one. "The people who made this really liked their inductor-capacitor circuits. there's dozens of them in here, most for recognising cities where they're transmitting from. But these ones..." he picked up one of the Sacred Crystals . "... are particularly interesting. They recognise the low frequency waves."

"Do they? Splendid!" I yawned. "Now what?"

"O go back to sleep, you... I'm going to p-p-put it b-back together again, and you can write d-down what it says."

I put my feet back on the table, and closed my eyes. "You do that."

 

---

 
I left Sparker in Paris with his new friend Bennett, who seemed pleased to have a companion, if not particularly this companion. I took the Orient Airlines, which flew from Paris, to Cairo, to Khartoum. Not having to carry Sparker's magickal apparatus gave me wings. I spent most of the flight asleep in my cabin, because wise spies do not sleep out in the open. We are a furtive, elusive form of life. I woke up in time for a late breakfast or early lunch, stepped down at three in the afternoon, and was surprised to see a man holding a sign with my name. I walked up to him.

"Good day. Wainwright. Algernon University."

"Ah." He looked genuinely glad to see me. "Mr. Ahmad Moghadam sends his greetings, Mr. Wainwright, and invites you to Moghadam Manor. If it pleases you, I will take you there."

"Please do," I said, and we walked out of the airport, straight past the queues for Passport Control. Coming to visit the Governor's son clearly had its perks. We got into a carriage drawn no doubt by the finest Arabian horses. The sun beat down on me, and I mentally kicked myself for forgetting a sunhat. Still, in these parts, that would have instantly marked me as a spy. I would have to find a bournous soon.

I had never been at the Governor's manor. I only met Ahmad after having been kidnapped by the Order of Cross and Moon, a mysterious organisation who, being Prometheus' enemies, were possibly our friends. They took us to a coal mine deep in the jungle that looked every bit like Hell on Earth for anyone unlucky enough to have worked there. I went through the administration there, looking for evidence of Prometheus activity, while Ahmad witnessed the slaughter that had taken place. The Order had buried the dead, mostly women and children, and then torched the place, erasing it from living memory in the hopes that nobody would ever return there again. I had my doubts. Coal is the equal of gold or diamonds in the greed it inspires in our souls. It feeds our hungry civilisations, moves us ahead, keeps us afloat. There is very little that people won't do to get it, and building a few new sheds and enslaving more people to mine for it is nothing at all.

 
I noticed the Manor long before we rode up to it. A large white building, richly decorated, with a high wall round it that was not ornamental at all, with metal spikes on top. We had already been seen, and the gates opened for us. Armed guards discreetly lurked in the shadows. We rode up to the house. The driver opened the door for me, and I stepped down. The front doors opened, and out came Mr. Ahmad Moghadam, son of Bouzid Moghadam, governor of Khartoum.

"Wainwright my friend, Salam Aleikum. Welcome to my home. Please come in. Would you like some coffee? Or perhaps tea? You are English after all."

"Aleikum Salam, Mr. Moghadam. If I must impose on you, coffee please." I doubted whether 'tea' here meant my favourite cup of builder's brew with milk, and Arabian coffee is rightly famous.

"At once! Follow me."

I walked the marble floor to a place where rows of shoes stood. I took off mine and put on the slippers provided. We stepped into a room decorated with tapestries on the wall showing desert landscapes with oases and bedouin tents. Ahmad quickly spoke to a servant and we sat down at a low table. Ten minutes later, the servant returned with a silver coffee pot and four delicate small china cups. Ahmad himself poured us a cup, and we drank.

"Wainwright, I have asked my father to join us. He will be there in a moment. In the mean time, how have you been?"

"I have been well," I said. "I have spent some time with family, and I have hunted for Her Majesty's enemies. As I am doing now."

"Have you had a good hunt?"

"For the most part, yes. We have destroyed their base in London, we have repelled an attack at Algernon, and caught several of their henchmen alive."

"Excellent. No doubt they have told you all they know?"

"Not so far, but I am confident they will."

"Pah! What do you English do? Feed them sherbet? Give them to us, and within a day, they will tell you all, in any language you wish." He looked round at a small noise at the door, and a big smile appeared on his face. He got up and extended a hand to the lady who had just entered. "But let us not speak of such things. Please Wainwright, allow me to introduce to you my wife, Najilah."

I stood up, bowed my head. It doesn't do to stare, but good Lord, it was hard not to. The lady who had just entered could have walked out of any fairytale of the Arabian Nights. Her slight figure was clothed in the best silk the Middle East had to offer, adorned with gold. Her eyes were a very bright blue, and she looked at me with a confident smile, fully aware of the effect she had on visiting kafir. Ahmad took her hand, and led her to one of the chairs. A house servant shot forward and poured her a cup of coffee.

"What brings you here, Agent Wainwright?"

"I am hunting the enemies of both our countries, Ma'am."

"How exciting," said Mrs. Moghadam. "But I am sure their days are numbered, with you on their trail." Her voice sounded effortlessly sincere, with a mocking undertone that lesser men might have missed.

"We can only try our best," I replied.

"Indeed," said Ahmad. "For we are but men, and nothing is perfect but Allah. Still inshallah, we will capture them, and the threat they pose will be no more."

The door opened again, and in walked a man in an impeccably tailored white suit. I recognised him from newspaper pictures as Mr. Bouzid Moghadam, governor of Khartoum, and apart from the King himself, the highest authority in this city. I stood up to greet him.

"Father," said Ahmad. "Here is Agent Wainwright of Algernon Unversity, of whom I have told you."

Mr. Moghadam looked at me with piercing dark eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses. "I know of this University. Welcome Agent Wainwright. Please forgive us for the somewhat ostentatious security measures." A little sarcastic smile appeared on his lips. "Sad to say, we have had a break-in, which makes it necessary to protect ourselves with, shall we say, slightly more zeal."

I knew of this. A certain group of individuals, hungry for knowledge on the Hammond expedition, had persuaded Mrs. Moghadam to leave a window open so they might enter and recover some documents. This was of course none other than our very own Miss Alexandra Tennant, who managed to escape with the goods by a hair's breadth. It seemed Mr. Moghadam hadn't quite forgiven us yet, but we had information that might prove invaluable to the Sudanese, and necessity makes excellent friends.

Mrs. Najilah Moghadam, sensing that we Men were about to start discussing sensitive and uninteresting subjects, rose from her chair, smiled at her husband, and walked out of the room in a swirl of golden silk and grace. Mr. Bouzid Moghadam turned to me.

"Agent Wainwright. We have been told you have information on the organisation called Prometheus. This organisation has stolen away the workers of one of our coal mines."

"We have had our revenge," said Ahmad. "We have rained down our wrath upon the enemy's stronghold, and turned it to rubble."

They certainly had. I ought to know because I was quite near that place when they bombed the hell out of it. The Tennants and I just managed to get the scientists out before they turned to smoke, a detail lost on the Moghadam family. Or perhaps they didn't love the French like we did. It had been an impressive display of fireworks, and not a shred of evidence was left. But what's done is done, and we could only take what we were given.

Before I came here, Dr. Pike and I had carefully prepared what I would tell. I told them where we had found and destroyed hideouts, (London, Kirov, and Moscow), where we suspected more of them were, but kept quiet about the one in Paris that the Arkham lot had managed to capture intact. I also left out that we knew how the devices worked. I gave a full account of all the things I had been able to learn at the abandoned mine in the jungle, and handed over a comprehensive report on all the events there. Finally, I announced that one of the hideouts was suspected to be in Khartoum itself.

Mr. Bouzid Moghadam and his son listened to me carefully, put some probing questions which I managed to answer without giving away too much. After about two hours, Mr. Moghadam had heard enough to inform his own intelligence network. Before he left, he turned to me.

"Mr. Wainwright," he said "You may find yourself desiring to make your own investigations. Please believe me when I say that you would not survive even an hour outside these walls, let alone in the back streets of Khartoum."

I raised my hands, nodded, and assured him that I would do no such thing. It was sound advice. My pale face, even if I would disguise it with walnut oil and a bournous, would stick out like a sore thumb, and be greeted with predatory happiness and sharp things. I intend to honour Dr. Pike's tutelage by becoming as old as he is, perhaps older.

With that concluded, Mr. Bouzid Moghadam bade me farewell and left. Ahmad summoned a servant, who installed me in a very luxurious room with a bed large enough for an entire family, a desk, a gold-lined porcelain ewer of water scented with lemon to wash my hands should I need to, thick carpets on the floor. In the Arab world, hospitality is taken seriously, as being kind to strangers is commanded in many places in the Hadith. I reflected for a moment on the contradiction between the bottomless kindness the Arabs display and the sheer limitless cruelty they are also capable of. I opened my briefcase, opened the secret compartment, took out Sparker's explanation of the Prometheus devices for simple peasants, and began to read.

 
It was only a few hours later, when a servant came to my room, asked me to dress in bournous, and follow him. Waiting for me in the hall was Ahmad and a half dozen of his security operatives, armed with pistols and knives. Ahmad grinned at me.

"Fate smiles on us, my friend," he said. "We have found our enemies hiding near the souk. Observe and learn Wainwright, this is how you learn from your enemies!"

We left the mansion by a side entrance, and marched towards the souk, a market. A souk in these parts is not simply a greengrocer, chemist, butcher, like our shopping streets or markets. It is a place to meet friends, exchange news, drink tea.

Behind the souk started the part of Khartoum that I had been warned about. Khartoum like many of these cities is a place that started small, and then grew slowly like a creature, or a bee hive. London, Paris, and many other cities in the world grew like this. There is always room for one more house, one more tent, one more child, but it's never just one. It is thousands of ones. All these ones need food going in, and they produce filth coming out. Inevitably, the needs of the thousands outgrow the capacity of the small streets and open sewers to move them, and the place turns to filth and disease. Bee hives when they grow too large will produce another queen and split into two hives, but humans are not so ready to depart from the place where they grew up, and so did their fathers, and their father's fathers. Only when things grow fetid beyond the capacity of the government to ignore, will people be evicted from their place, everything torn down and re-built with an eye towards sanitation and provisions. There is a progression in this, going from friendly persuasion to unfriendly persuasion, and in the end, violence. This always generates a lot of anger in the community, which not all governments are ready to deal with, and so the place is allowed to fester for just a little while longer.

 
Ahmad and I, indistinguishable from the guards in our clothes, moved quickly through the many small streets and alleys until we came to a house no different from any of the ones next to it. One of the guards pulled open the door and we went in.

I was glad my face was covered, and only my eyes showed. It would have been even better if I could have covered my eyes as well.

On the dirt floor, three men lay, naked, arms and legs tied behind their backs with a rope going round their necks, strangling them so they could only breathe if they pulled at their ropes. Two of them were making soft, anguished noises. The third didn't move anymore. There is an important question when torturing people: Do I need to let them go afterwards, or not? If so, then there are limits to what you can do to a man. If not, then there are none.

These men were marked for death.

Ahmad pointed at one of them, and one of the guards kicked him. He hardly made a sound anymore. Ahmad fired a question at him. The man croaked an answer, but it clearly wasn't good enough. One of Ahmad's men took a knife and sliced three long cuts into his shoulder. The man fainted from the pain, but was revived with water. Ahmad asked his question again, waving the knife in front of the man's eyes. His words came quickly, desperately. Ahmad grunted, stood up, kicked the man, more out of frustration than to force more information out of him. He turned to me.

"These are spies," he said. "But not of Prometheus. They belong to an Egyptian organisation who want to take over our interest in the Sudanese coal industry. A false trail. We will go home and report to Father."

He spoke these words where the prisoners could hear them. Either he thought they didn't speak English, or he didn't care if they understood him.

"Follow me," he said.

I hurried after him. I imagined that the men in the house would be dead before we'd reach the souk. Or did I hope they would be? I could have spoken. I could have made known my disgust and displeasure. But what would it have helped? Ahmad would only have laughed at me. The deeds were already done.

People often say that torture doesn't work. Hurt a man or woman enough, and they will tell you anything they think will make you happy, whether or not it is the truth. And that is correct. The Secret Service does not use torture for information. Our interrogators use mind tricks. They remember every sentence said in an interrogation, and without fail spot inconsistencies, lies, tricks. We may take more time, but we will get all the information, and it will be accurate.

But torture has other uses besides information. Intimidation. Oppression. To spread fear in a community that may grow bold enough to resist your rule. To write upon your enemies' broken bodies and minds what will happen to them if they dare resist. And for that purpose, torture works very well indeed. Also, there is the simple sadistic pleasure in causing another human to suffer. To elevate oneself above others by crushing them. An illusory feeling of superiority.

Of all the applications of human ingenuity, torture must surely be the most misguided of all.

 

---

 
Mr. Bouzid Moghadam took the news of our disappointing afternoon with only a little nod. One can only take the gifts of Allah that one is given, and any result was better than no result. Ahmad seemed to take it as a personal insult. A servant took me back to my room, and served me a dinner of curried goat and couscous with flat bread. My company at their table was not needed. I pulled out my briefcase and found that the hair I had stuck to it was gone. Someone had opened it for me while I was gone. The secret compartment was still unopened, but I had taken out Sparker's documents as a precaution and stuck them under the drawer of my nightstand. They were still there, untouched.

Inexperienced agents might be offended by such indiscretions, but we are all lying bastards, and none of us can claim the moral high ground. The important question was whether they were watching me even here and now. I spent about an hour admiring the room's rich furnishings, looking for spy holes, mirrors, listening tubes, and all the other things commonly used to gain deeper insight into a guest's character and intentions. I found nothing, not even an obvious listening device to make one think one has found them all.

 
The servant, named Mahmoud, came back for my empty bowls, informed me that the Moghadam household was retiring and bade me good night. I undressed and hid myself in bed. It was hard to fall asleep with this afternoon's images burnt into my eyes, but finally, I fell into an uneasy slumber. I was awoken in the middle of the night by a soft noise. I looked up to see a shadow standing by the foot end of my bed. I turned up the oil lamp, and its light revealed the form of Mrs. Najilah Moghadam. She was wearing a red and gold gown of a fabric so thin it did nothing to hide her figure. Blue eyes gleamed at me, confident in herself and sure that I would give her anything she might desire. It took me a few moments to find my voice.

"Mrs. Moghadam?"

She walked round the bed to me, her gown floating round her. She laughed quietly. "Do all the English call women by their last name? Even if they come offering gifts?"

Regarding my appearance, Fate has not dealt me a bad hand. I have a full head of hair, my eyes are clear, my nose is straight, my figure is built by many an hour in the single scull, and I have attracted the occasional interested look from the fairer sex. Still, banker's daughters and Arabian princesses do not swoon and melt into my arms the moment they lay eyes on me.

"Can I afford this gift?"

"It is a gift." She sat down on the bed next to me. "A generous gift."

I looked up at her. "What will happen if your husband learns you are here?"

She smiled, showing a row of perfect teeth. "My husband will take you, hang you by your ankles, cut off your manly part with a red hot knife, whip you until you have no more skin, then shoot whatever is left of you. Then he will take me into the desert, bury me shoulder deep in the sand and throw heavy rocks at me until I am dead." She sat up, pulling her gown tight over her breasts. She might as well not have bothered wearing it. "Do you think I am worth the risk?"

A good part of me was screaming at me to pull her to me, and enjoy this gift to the last drop. When would I ever have a chance like this again? But sirens were blaring in my mind. Something was Wrong with a capital Err.

"No gift is worth risking such a fate to you, Mrs. Moghadam."

"Or to you?"

"That too."

"A coward, then." She sounded disappointed.

"Why are you here, Mrs. Moghadam?"

She closed her eyes for a moment. "Call me by my name, Wainwright."

"Najilah," I said. "It is best that you leave."

She stood up, looked down on me. "Good night, Wainwright."

And without another word, she walked out of my bedroom, leaving me to wonder what had just happened. A few minutes later I was asleep again.

I did not dream. I am grateful.

 

---

 
The next morning I was awake early. I joined Ahmad for a breakfast of rice and vegetables, with strong coffee. He seemed out of sorts, until one of his guards came in and whispered in his ear. He gave me a satisfied look, and for a moment I feared he had learnt of my nighttime meeting with Najilah and I was about to be executed in grisly ways.

"Another trail to follow, Agent Wainwright. We have found another Prometheus hideout. We will go there and root them out."

We took a carriage to the place. Myself, Ahmad, and four of Mr. Moghadam's armed guards were all armed with pistols. I had brought a small tool kit that would help me disembowel any Hermes device. We rode to the outskirts of Khartoum, got out of the carriage, and walked up to a building with the characteristic onion-shaped minaret.

"A mosque?"

"Not anymore," said Ahmad. "The faithful outgrew this masjid, by the grace of Allah, and moved to a larger one. It will soon be taken down." Ahmad grinned. "You do not even need to remove your shoes, Infidel. Nor, I am sure, do our enemies."

"That's a bit cheeky of them, setting up in a place of worship." I unsnapped the strap on my holster.

Ahmad laughed. "We will show them the error of their ways."

The mosque was built out of limestone, and plastered white. The top of the minaret still had its shining cover, and would be a perfect place for a sniper. We calmly walked up to the door in the knowledge that if we would be shot, it would be the will of Allah. We English can be phlegmatic, but I can tell you, we have nothing on the Arabs.

We took the men's entrance, because breaking into the women's entrance would have been rude. All the furniture had been taken out except the stone basins where Muslims once performed the cleansing ritual of wudu before prayer. We found nobody, and went on into the main hall, or zullah. It was brightly decorated in geometrical shapes, the symmetry representing the perfection of Allah. The roof was domed, so that it strengthened the sound of the imam's voice as he led the congregation in prayer. When it was in use, there would have been a carpet on the floor, with marked spaces so that each of the faithful could perform salah without disturbing his neighbor. That carpet was now gone. On the bare stone floor stood large glass vessels filled with some hellish liquid. They were connected to each other with metal wires. Up against the wall close to the minaret was one of Prometheus' Hermes Devices. Its red light was on, like an eye watching us, a menacing presence in this once holy place.

 
While my companions searched the place for enemies, I faced the sleeping beast. From Sparker's notes, I knew that the device could light its deadly load of flammable oil in two ways. One was for Magister Slate in his Eyrie to command it. The other was through a clock that would run down in forty-eight hours unless reset. This was to prevent the device falling into the wrong hands should the Prometheus agents be captured or killed. I calmed myself down with a few deep breaths and unscrewed the side of the device. Inside was a large glass bottle filled with a liquid the colour of tea. I looked carefully, and under the bottle was a mechanical hammer meant to break the glass, and spill the liquid all over the insides of the device. Next to the hammer was what Sparker had called the Arc Angel: two metal spikes a fraction of an inch apart. This would produce a small arc of lightening, hence the name. With those items found, it would only be a matter of removing the electrical wires from hammer and Arc Angel, preventing Hell from being unleashed.

Simple.

 
I reached inside, and gingerly pulled at one of the wires connected to the hammer.

It stayed where it was.

I pulled harder.

The wire didn't budge.

Sparker's notes had been clear. Do not let any bare wire touch any of the other parts inside, or springs might snap, fuses might blow whatever that meant, corks might pop, and sparks might fly. This machine was not for working on by idiots.

I took a pair of cutters from my toolkit.

"Unreasonable force," I muttered.

I put the wire cutters on the wire, closed my eyes, and squeezed. With a click, the wire came apart. Fire and death did not happen.

Good.

Growing bolder, I cut out the wires going to the hammer and the ignitor. I undid the bolts holding them in place and removed them. I put both parts on top of the cabinet, closed my eyes and heaved a deep sigh.

I'd done it!

The machine was now safe. I had reached into the jaws of the Dragon, and pulled out its teeth!

It was at that point that I nearly soiled myself.

There were three explosions, made louder by the zullah's excellent acoustics. I fell down in a weird kind of crouch behind the device, and waited for death. A few moments later, I heard angry shouts in Arabic, and more loud bangs.

Our enemies had arrived.

I drew my own pistol, and peered out from my hiding place between device and wall. I saw Ahmad's white bournous disappear into one of the side chambers. Someone I didn't know tried to follow. I aimed for his legs, then changed my mind and shot him in the head instead. I was not in the mood for another scene like I had seen the day before. He fell down like a rag doll and never moved again. Another man, wearing blue robes, aimed a revolver at me. I ducked behind the device. The man, probably fully aware of what was inside the cabinet, just swore and tried to move to the side so he could get a clean shot at me. One of Ahmad's guards leapt up and shot him three times. He paid a heavy price for his bravery, as another shot fell and hit him in the back of the head, turning his face into a bloody mess from the exit wound. I fired back, but missed. The gunman leapt back into one of the alcoves.

One of our guards was essentially sitting on top of Ahmad to keep him out of trouble, but he did have a good shot at the alcove. The remaining two guards crept up on either side, while I and Ahmad's caretaker forced him to keep his head down. Clearly, the man knew his time was up, as he leapt out of the alcove with a shout of Allah akhbar, wildly firing in all directions. The two guards leapt on top of him, knocked the pistol out of his hand, and pulled his arms behind his back. I waited a few moments, but it seemed we had them all. Ahmad stepped out of his hiding place. His guard walked over to his fallen companion. A single look was enough.

"Allah is great, His will be done."

Ahmad now turned to the captured Prometheus agent. They turned him onto his back and Ahmad asked him who he was and who he was working for. The agent only laughed. There was a small cracking noise, and with a final curse, foaming at the mouth, the man died. Ahmad glared, kicked the corpse where it lay. I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Ahmad. We have captured the Prometheus base. We have their equipment. Except for the fate of your friend, this has gone well."

Ahmad calmed himself. "You are right of course, my friend."

"What was his name?"

Ahmad frowned, then understood. He looked at one of the guards.

"Hassan."

"Hassan," I repeated. I looked at his friend. "He died so that I might live. I will try to be worthy of his sacrifice."

The guard only nodded. They laid their fallen comrade to rest by the qibla wall, facing Mecca, and also the dead Prometheus agents. They bowed their heads, prayed for them all. One of them went to fetch the carriage. Meanwhile, Ahmad was walking round the Hermes device, looking at the lights. He reached out to touch it, but I stopped him.

"Careful. I have disabled the largest bomb, but there may be others. Also, we don't want to alert Magister Slate to the fact that one of his devices is now in our hands. It is best that he thinks it destroyed."

"Then what would you do?"

I looked the Device over.

"I will search it for more traps and bombs. I will drain the flammable liquid. Then, I will watch it, and maybe listen in on the messages of our enemies. I can make no promises, though. Prometheus are using a cypher that I don't know how to break."

"Very well," said Ahmad. "Then I will go home, and arrange for a guard to be put on this masjid." He grinned. "And then I will celebrate this success with Najilah."

"You do that," I said, and reached for my toolbox.

 
As the day went on, I removed all the side panels from the Hermes Device's cabinet, and carefully searched it for more unpleasant surprises. I found none. I put the panels back on, and watched the lights turn on and off. On two occasions, the dial moved, and I made a note of the messages:

 

XUNEGBHZ ERCBEG NF FBBA NF CBFFVOYR

 

GURER VF AB GVZR YVXR GUR CERFRAG

 
Finally, a red light came on, and a bell rang three times. After that, there were no more messages. Presumably, Slate now realised that Khartoum had fallen. The future promised to be interesting. I found that I could observe what other locations were saying by turning the dial to them when their lights came on. It was all gibberish, and I soon gave up. Three of Ahmad's guards returned carrying food. We ate, they took up their guard positions, and I settled in behind the Hermes device.

Najilah did not visit me that night. I still didn't quite understand why she had risked life and limb to come and try to seduce me, nor why I had refused her. Was I really that concerned with the sanctity of marriage? Was I really that scared of Ahmad and his inhumane tendencies? I have to admit I was not. Gifts freely offered can be accepted.

I looked at the machine. The light marked ARKAMEN came on for a few moments, and I turned the knob to it to watch the pointer spell out yet another unintelligible message. Maybe Bennett was right and they were trying to drive me insane.

I settled down to a long watch and thought of the women I had known in the Biblical sense. I had never been truly in love, but there had been companionship. Comfort. Pleasure shared. And that was where the sore point lay. I had not sensed in Najilah the least bit of interest in me. To her, I was simply a source of entertainment. Furthermore, the entertainment wasn't even the enjoyment of our bodies. She could have eaten foods prohibited by Islam, or drunk wine, or smoked hashish, or done anything forbidden and thereby enticing. I would have been simply another forbidden fruit, to be plucked, eaten, the stones and skin discarded.

In our work as spies, sex is a tool, a currency, a diversionary tactic, and while the occasion hasn't presented itself, I have no compunction against using it as such. Still, I am not a disposable plaything. Not even for an Arabian princess of whom the songs sing.

Alexandra Tennant: Cat and Mouse

The Parisian hideout - Special delivery - Light and fury - A two-pronged attack - Sparks fly to Ipswich - Technical difficulties - Trust issues - Holiday in the Mediterranean

 

---

 

SCHOOL PHOTOGRAPHS TO BE TAKEN THIS WEDNESDAY

 

Rina Prescott reporting

 

This Wednesday, we are once more called upon to provide photographic evidence to our parents that we are in fact attending this University, and that we still have all our limbs. As always, these photographs will be taken by Dr. Lowe of Alchemy. Dr. Lowe reminds us all that the University dress code is in full effect, including school ties for the boys and regulation length skirts for the girls. As I'm sure nobody needs reminding, skirts are to touch the floor when kneeling. No bare knees to scare the horses or inflame the lustful desires of any attendant boys. Dr. Brassica will once more supply us with a homoeopathic tincture of nettles to treat any blemishes that we don't want to be immortalised with. Sadly, since the unfortunate disappearance of Mr. Frump last year, this tincture will only be supplied to girls.

 

Like last year, a special mention in this publication will be given to the boy or girl who most daringly flaunts the spirit of the Algernon U dress code without breaking the letter of it. Last year's winner was Miss Jocelyn Vale, who wore two skirts, one round each knee, each of them indeed touching the ground when kneeling, leaving the thighs, but not the knees, bare. The rules, sadly, have been amended to allow only one skirt per student, to be worn round the waist. The dress code now spans five pages of typescript and mostly consists of things Jocelyn Vale and last year's runner-up, Carrie StJohn, are no longer allowed to do.

 

---

 
When I woke up, I could see the Eiffel Tower out of my porthole. Above me, Brenda was still asleep. I quietly got out of bed, taking the time to appreciate that I could stand up and walk around without the familiar pain. Hester Klemm had finally done her last to me, and now all that remained was to regain my strength. In the bunk above mine, Brenda must be shouting in her dream. Her arms and legs were twitching. I touched her shoulder, and she startled awake.

"What?"

I gave her a smile. "Paris."

Brenda slowly sat up, legs dangling over the edge of her bed. Her usual bluster came back. "Again? Let's go to Amsterdam instead. It's filled with whores and drugs."

"Don't talk to me about drugs," I said. "I'm glad to bid them farewell."

Brenda leapt out of bed, pulled on her clothes. "That's because you have the wrong drugs. You want the stuff that makes you see Paradise."

"I thought that's what the whores were for."

"No, what you do with a whore is you watch her and wait till someone walks up to her and then you go Howdy neighbor! Fancy meeting you here! And then you watch him jump."

I shook my head laughing. "You must have so many friends."

"Funny you should say that." She opened the door. "Let's make some real food before we're left with snails and baguettes."

 
After breakfast, we landed again at Orly airport. Riley wanted to go visit the Prometheus hideout, and Brenda and I volunteered to accompany him. We changed into our adventuring outfits, armed ourselves with pistols, and took a carriage to the district known as Le Marais. Riley sat next to me, grumpy as usual, and Brenda leant back in her seat, looking out at the streets passing by without seeing much. We got out, walked up to a house like any other and knocked. We were let in by a large man named Bennett.

Bennett took us into the basement, where a ginger bearded gentleman was staring at a wooden cabinet with many knobs, lights, and a strange kind of clock. I recognised him as one of the more occult professors at Algernon from one of the times I'd had lunch with Margaret in the Faculty Lounge. He was concentrating on the machine, writing in his notebook, and didn't even notice we were there until the hand stopped moving.

He looked up and frowned, as the room had taken a definite turn for the feminine. If I say so myself, Brenda and I were cutting a fine figure, I in my new no-frills form fitting all-environment suit and black canvas jacket, she in her leather pirate outfit. He didn't seem as impressed with us as he should be.

"Miss T-t-t..." he took a deep breath. "Tennant."

"My fame precedes me," I said. "Doctor...?"

"Call me Sparker," he said. "Everyone else d-does."

"And I'm Lee. Brenda Lee." She pointed over her shoulder. "He's Riley. Don't mind him, he's an asshole."

Riley gave Brenda a weary look. "Anything good to report?"

Sparker turned round to the machine. "They're pretty chatty, but they use a cipher." He stroked his beard. "I'm fairly sure how this device w-w-works now. I need t-to get back to Algernon so we can b-build our own."

"Would this help?"

I took from my jacket pocket some folded sheets of paper, my translation into English of Dr. Dupont's diary. I had made it while en route to Paris. It was fairly good, I thought, but did not mention me or Brenda, which was nobody's business but ours.

"Interesting." Sparker leafed through it quickly. "B-bloody hell, they made him W-w-whip someone to death? If Slate ever offers me a job, remind me to say no."

"I w-worked for him," said Brenda. Sparker glared at her and she waved her hand. "Sorry, didn't mean to do that. The pay was good, but I never got to spend any of it."

"Can I have a look at that?" Riley held out his hand, and Sparker promptly handed over my translation. He skimmed through it, looked at me. "Were you thinking of giving me a copy of that, Alex?"

I gave him a sweet little smile. "Not really, no. You've not really given me any quo to warrant a quid."

"God dammit, I hate working with amateurs." Riley put my translation in his pocket and turned to Sparker. "Got any transcripts of those messages? Our maths department may be able to break it."

"I'll p-put my bets on the Bletchley lot, Riley." Sparker sneered. "I'll copy out a few for you. Now give me back my sodding p-papers so I can have a look."

Riley looked at him with wide eyes. "What papers?"

Bennett made a gruff noise. "I can see you have a lot to talk about. I'll just go upstairs while you sodding idiots establish the bloody pecking order. Cliff, lunch arrives at eleven thirty." He turned round and left.

"Oo! Can I play too?" Brenda's eyes gleamed. "I'm sure I can write a steamy story about Riley and Miss Felicia. Swap you one of those transcripts?"

Riley raised his cane and slammed it down on the table with a surprisingly loud bang, as if it was made of more than rattan.

"Will you goddamn idiots cut it out?" Riley glared round he room. "You get all huffy when I don't tell you all I know. O Riley, why didn't you tell us Boreas was coming? Why don't you tell us about the Russians? Why don't you tell us when to wipe our asses? All of that, you could have known yourself already." He sneered. "Except maybe when to wipe your asses."

"Hold on now, Riley..." I started.

"No you hold on. What kind of game do you think we're playing here?" He stabbed a finger at me. "You heard goddamn Slate himself order that little French whore to kill you, and still you're here pretending to be some kind of master spy? You think I don't trust you? Damn right I don't trust you! Grow the hell up and then I'll trust you."

The cellar door opened, and Bennett stuck his head in.

"Are you still at it? Just rent a room in a cheap hotel here, will you? Cliff, lunch has arrived. It's a good one. Fresh warm baguettes, Camembert and onion soup, if I'm not mistaken." He scowled. "The rest of you, there's a bistro two streets away. Don't bloody come back till you can act civil."

"Sounds like a damn good plan," said Riley.

 
Since Dr. Parker was already catered for, Brenda, Riley, and I walked up the stairs to go out and hunt for food. Sparker pointed at the door.

"We get our lunch from a boucherie-charcuterie. Out the door, go left, continue to the-"

Dr. Parker would never explain to us where the butcher was. An unbelievably loud explosion came from the kitchen and blew open the door. All of us except Brenda stood stock still for at least ten seconds. Brenda, pistol in hand, leapt for Sparker, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him behind a chest of drawers. Only then did Riley and I draw weapons.

"What the hell was that?" said Riley.

Brenda was sitting on top of Sparker. She glared at Riley. "That's what we military types call a detonation." She shook Sparker. "You. Stay where you are. Don't move till we come for you. Got that?"

Sparker made some incoherent noises. Brenda pulled him up.

"Got that?"

"Ya."

"Good." Brenda looked at Riley and me. "What're you waiting for? Go see what's left of Bennett."

There's a phrase we sometimes use to indicate that a room isn't as tidy as it might be. In this kitchen, a bomb had really gone off, and I swear never to make light of it again. Everything was broken, burning. I walked in first, with Brenda behind. Riley stayed in the hallway with Sparker. One of the walls was painted red with Bennett's blood. His body lay on the ground, and there was no need to check if he was breathing.

Slowly, the smoke cleared. I looked out through the broken window and the first thing I saw outside was a muzzle flash. As I dropped to my stomach, I heard Brenda cry out, then a long and impressive string of transatlantic swearwords.

"Brenda!"

"I'm hit! My arm, dammit!"

From the outside, more shots were fired, and bullets hissed past us and struck the wall. I raised my pistol, aimed just above one of the places where a muzzle flash had been and squeezed off two rounds. Behind me, Brenda emptied her magazine in a salvo of suppressive fire, not meant actually to hit anything, only to make the place where our enemies were more dangerous.

"Back!" I shouted.

Our enemies now all opened fire together, and we could do nothing except retreat. I heard a male voice shout an order.

"Avancez!"

Brenda and I crawled backwards on our bellies, while behind us Riley fired through the kitchen door. I turned to Brenda, pulling a field dressing out of my pocket.

"Show me."

Swearing under her breath, Brenda raised her left arm. I put her hand on my shoulder, blood dripping down onto the floor.

"It's allright." I wrapped the bandage tight round her arm. "They missed the ink."

Brenda only grunted as I tied off the bandage.

I grabbed my pistol. "Let's go. Sparker?"

Sparker got to his feet. "My notes! I need to get my notes!"

Brenda glared at him "Screw your goddamn notes! We're getting out of here!"

"No you b-bloody don't! Those b-b-bloody notes are the whole reason w-we're here! I'm going to get them. W-won't be a minute."

Before anyone could stop him, he ran down the stairs into the cellar. Brenda gave me a look.

"Go," I said. "Make sure he hurries up. We'll hold here."

Brenda plunged down the stairs, and I looked down the hallway. In the light of the burning kitchen, I could see men armed with pistols. I aimed for the head of one of them, fired once, watched him fall down. The other man leapt away from the door before I could shoot him. Riley and I retreated to the door next to the stairwell. I could see movement in the kitchen, and Riley fired, but the man moved away too quickly.

Brenda came up, pistol in one hand, Sparker in the other.

"Got it?"

"Yeah," said Brenda. "Let's go."

At that moment, something came bouncing off the wall, into the hallway, with a soft hissing sound and a trail of sparks. Brenda shouted.

"Grenade!"

It was actually a stick of dynamite, but I wasn't going to argue. There was only one thing I could do. I kicked the explosive down the cellar stairs and dropped to my stomach, hands over my head. The explosion thundered through our bodies, and our ears rang. In the kitchen, someone moved. I aimed, fired, and he went down.

Riley jumped up. "To the front door!"

Brenda turned in the direction of the kitchen, keeping Sparker behind her. I turned to the front door. Riley stood next to it, looked back to me. I nodded, and he opened the door. As soon as the door was open, a gun fired from the outside, and bullets buzzed through the hallway. I aimed for the muzzle flash, rapid-fired three times, then rolled away to keep the gunman outside from doing the same. Behind me, Brenda opened fire. I could hear the bullets impact the wall of the house across the road, then running feet as the gunman decided to continue the afternoon elsewhere. An empty magazine fell to the ground, and I heard the clicks as Brenda loaded another.

"Go!"

We ran outside, Brenda towing Sparker by his collar. We quickly disappeared into an alley between two houses, and I gave Brenda my jacket to hide her bloody bandaged arm. I put my shoulder holster and pistol in Sparker's satchel and took it over from him. Now we looked suitably innocent once more, we walked to the nearest larger street and hailed a passing carriage. We bundled into it, and I looked at my companions. Riley sat looking ahead of him, with his normal disagreeable expression. Sparker had his eyes closed, clutched his satchel to his chest. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead. Brenda sat looking out of the window, hand on her shoulder, all the usual laughter drained away from her face. She saw me looking, gave me a kind of half-sneer, and continued looking out. We arrived at the airport and hurried to Lady I's berth, only to find her gone. For a few moments, we simply stood looking at each other, but then there was a familiar voice behind us.

"It's all right." Professor Wadcroft came walking up wearing full jungle khaki, complete with pith helmet and his large caliber revolver in a holster on his side. "We've had to move house to a field about three miles south of here." He sneered. "We've had some uninvited guests."

"Any..." I took a slow breath. "Casualties?"

"Young Carl took a knock to the head, but no worse. Andrew..." Wadcroft looked at the ground. "Is a bit shaken, but Miss Felicia is taking care of him. Other than that, nothing." He stirred himself. "We need to get going. It's about a twenty minutes walk. Lady I is up in the air, watching the field. When they see us, they'll come pick us up."

I nodded, looked at Brenda. "Can you make that?"

"Less you want me to walk it on my hands. Christ Tennant, it's only a scratch."

"Good. Riley?"

Riley leaned on his cane. "Get going already."

 
Professor Wadcroft led the way, not talking. Riley, being the slowest on foot, walked next to him. Next were Brenda and Professor Sparker. I took up the rear. The afternoon was drawing to a close, the sun was setting, and the woods smelled fresh and wholesome. I was simply enjoying the feeling of walking again. Even stamping on the ground no longer hurt me, though my metal knees felt strangely numb. My mind was in a state I recognised from fire-fights I had been in before, carefully staying away from the fact that I had been near death today, and that I had almost certainly shot and killed people. There was a slowly increasing number of people whose story I had ended, and with an uncertain case or two, I no longer even know the exact number. But I wasn't thinking about that as I marched along. I noticed the smell of pollen in the air, the buzz of insects, the rush of wind through the trees, Brenda's voice as she cheerfully tried to seduce Professor Sparker, who stomped on next to her answering only in grunts. Given certain rumours, she was not likely to succeed, but Marines are not taught to quit in the face of resistance. I watched her walk, one hundred and twenty paces per minute, wearing my jacket to hide her bloodied arm, and wondered what her count was. Whether this loud, irreverend, and truth be told vaguely perverse manner was her way of pushing away ghosts in her past. Whether I wanted to find out the whole story wasn't something I was certain of at all.

We came to a field with a couple of light brown cows, peacefully grazing, watching us with the looks of creatures immune to boredom. Wadcroft didn't have to signal. A few minutes later, Lady I, propellers lazily spinning, came floating down with a grace and precision that suggested the hand of Fatin at the helm. The landing wheels bumped the ground, and the side door opened. Carl cranked the handle and by Andrew's new mechanism, the gangplank extended itself.

I looked at my brother. "Hello Carl. What happened to you? You look like an easter egg!"

Carl's hand went to the bandage wrapped round his head. "Someone tried to crack me. How are you?"

"Brenda's been hit," I said. "Needs a proper bandage."

"Through the head, so no harm done," said Brenda, nudging Sparker through the door. "Riley didn't get hit at all, dammit."

Riley poked Brenda's arm with his cane. "Anyone ever tell you you're a major pain in the ass?"

"Yeah."

Father walked up from the bridge. "All the sick and the lame, head to the mess hall for wounds, the licking of. Everyone else, to the bridge."

Margaret came out of the cargo bay. "The Doctor will see you now." She looked at Brenda, who had taken off my jacket and given it back to me. "Oh you poor thing! Come here and let me take a look at that arm. Carl, I don't know who wrapped you up like that but it's coming off."

"You're not a real doctor," said Carl.

Margaret smacked him. "Archaeology, Anthropology, and Physics. Even did a little stint as a nurse, when I still thought I wanted to be a surgeon."

Wadcroft chuckled. "Margaret is your best bet. I'm Geology. I'd just throw rocks at you till you got better."

Father clapped his hands. "Come on people! Get a move on."

 
Those sound of body went to the bridge, straight to the drinks cabinets for Gin and Tonic to fend off malaria. On entering, I noticed several dents in the solid steel bridge door. The floor was wet as if someone had just mopped it. Fatin was in the captain's chair, feeding Raage. Father paced up and down the deck. I emptied my glass and put it down.

"What happened here?"

"Full on assault," said Wadcroft. "Four men with pistols and machetes, crept under the airport fence and climbed up our mooring cable. They jumped Carl, knocked him out."

"But not hard enough," said Father. "He got his hard head from my side of the family."

Dr. Parker sat in one of the observation chairs, staring ahead of him, still clutching his satchel like an amulet protecting his sanity.

"He's dead." Parker's voice sounded dull, incredulous. "Someone killed him. With a sodding bomb!"

I stared out of the window. "Must have died instantly. At least he didn't suffer."

"If I..." Parker started to shiver, and Wadcroft poured him another drink, going easy on the tonic. "I could have died there!"

Riley gave him a nasty grin. "Could have been a problem burying you both. Could have ended up in a coffin with Bennet's arm."

Parker's eyes opened wide and he tossed down his drink.

"Shut up Riley," said Father.

Brenda and Carl came walking in, followed by Margaret, both sporting bright white bandages. As they poured themselves drinks, Miss Felicia came in looking quietly angry with the world. Margaret turned to her, handed her a glass.

"How is he?"

"Asleep." Miss Felicia sat down in a chair and put the glass down. "He needed a little help."

"What's wrong with him?" said Brenda.

"He's been in another fight."

"It's going round these days."

Felicia closed her eyes a moment. "He... won. The other man fell down the cargo bay door."

"Oh," I said. Then I realised how high up Lady I had been. "Oh."

"A year ago, Andrew had never ever hurt a soul." Felicia scowled. "Now, he's killed two men! Where will this end?" She took a few shivering breaths. "People look at Andrew, and... and... piss themselves because he's so big and strong, and I could always say he wouldn't hurt a fly! Then we have that business with the StJohn girl, then we have a bloody assault on the university, and now this!" Felicia took a drink from her glass and slammed it down on the side table, spilling gin and tonic. "If this goes on, people will be right to be scared of him!"

"You ain't scared of me, are you?" said Brenda. "I've been in wars. I've been in Police Actions. I could jump up right now and kill you in at least three different ways. Make it hurt, too. I'm one of the scariest people on board."

"But I know you won't," said Felicia. "I'm a civvy. I'm 'collateral damage'. You've been trained not to attack me."

"Yeah. In the Marines. Not..." Brenda looked away a moment, sighed. "Anyway. You'd still go to sleep next to Big Guy, wouldn't you?"

"That would be highly inappropriate." Felicia smiled. "But yes."

"Someone pointed a damn gun at him, Miss. People stop being civvies the moment they pick up a gun."

"He doesn't know the difference. He never needed to at Algernon U." Felicia looked at her glass. I picked it up, refilled it. "He's not equipped for... for this."

"Then somebody better explain it to him." Brenda put her hand on Felicia's arm. "It's not really that difficult. Him or me, that's all."

Felicia gave a little unamused laugh. "Rules Of Engagement, isn't that what you call it?"

"R.O.E. Yeah."

"Andrew lives by rules and regulations. From the moment he wakes up at exactly seven o'clock. Doesn't need the alarm clock to wake up, but one day when it was broken, he couldn't get up because he has to turn it off to get out of bed. Dress appropriately for today's activities. Breakfast at seven thirty. Cup of tea. Four rashers of bacon, three sausages, two fried eggs, one ladle of baked beans, two slices of toast. When finished at seven forty-two exactly, place breakfast tray on the counter, go to workshop. Wear safety equipment when using the forge. Remove safety equipment before leaving the workshop. Apply for permission when working on University facilities. Provide blueprints for all projects." Felicia closed her eyes. "Kill only people who point guns at you. Good God."

"At least with Andrew, you know he'll follow the R.O.E. to the last comma." I put an arm round Felicia's shoulders. She looked up at me.

"I don't want him to need rules for that."

"When we finish our job, he won't need them anymore."

"When you finish your job? When will that be? We don't even know yet how large an organisation Prometheus is. When does it stop? With Slate dead? With everyone in Prometheus dead?"

"Or retired," said Brenda.

Felicia smiled, her eyes shiny with tears. "Or retired."

Brenda raised her fist. "Yes! I get to live!"

"Job's never gonna be done just by shootin' Slate in the head," said Riley. "It's like a mythical monster. Slate has a couple of seconds-in-command. Cut off the head, and then you have four Prometheus cults."

Riley got up, limped to the drinks cabinet, and poured himself a stiff whisky. He'd brought that bottle on board himself, like a good paranoiac should. He returned to his chair and sat down with a grunt.

"What you have to ask yourself, is what does Prometheus want?"

"To kill us all," I said.

"No."

I frowned "No? I heard him say it myself."

"I don't care. What do they really want? They found out about these glowing rocks, and they think they're going to be the best thing since coal. They kidnapped a bunch of Blacks to dig it out of the ground for them."

I sneered. "And killed their women and children."

"Can you keep your pie hole shut for a minute? I'm trying to explain something here. They grabbed a bunch of eggheads to find out more about these rocks."

"Pitchblende," said Wadcroft. "With traces of Radium. It's very toxic. They must have a good reason for wanting it."

"Dr. Dupont was working on engines that work on electricity," said Margaret. "They use tame lightening to send their messages all over the world."

We all looked at Sparker, who was sitting a little way off, clutching a mug of tea.

"What?"

"Can you get electricity out of pitchblende?" said Margaret. "The glow does look kind of electrical."

"Not that I know," said Sparker. "They are using lead acid batteries to run their machines. The ancient Egyptians had those." He gave a grim chuckle. "They used them to talk to the Gods. By shocking their priests." He raised his satchel. "Their Hermes devices are clever, I'll grant you. But their power sources are old news."

"Maybe Prometheus have found a way to extract the glow from the Pitchblende," I said.

"No," said Riley. I was getting a bit tired of him running roughshod over all my ideas, to be honest. "If they'd found it, they'd be using it. They only think they're on to something."

Carl scratched under his bandage. "So if they don't even know yet that it works, why are they after everyone doing the same?"

Fatin smiled at Raage, buttoned herself up, and put him on her shoulder, gently tapping his back. "Some tribes hunt lions. Their meat tastes bad, but the men look very brave wearing their skin." She got up and put Raage in his pram. "And we eat the kudu that the dead lions do not eat."

Riley turned round to her with a little, almost surprised grin on his face. "Exactly. They want to be the ones to lead the world into this bright new electric future. Just think about it. Your machines will be bigger, faster, stronger, and they won't even need coal. You could name your price. Hell, you wouldn't even need to name your price. It'd be whatever they got. That's the prize, people."

"And one of the things standing between them and it," said Father, "is us."

We fell quiet for a while. Finally Parker sighed.

"Electricity doesn't smoke," said Parker. "It'd be nice to see the city sky again." He looked up. "I need to get back to Ipswich. I have work to do."

 

---

 
That evening, we were hailed by the airship Boreas of Miskatonic University in Arkham. With the Paris base gone, and no Hermes device of our own, we could only join Agent Wainwright in Khartoum. Captain Gaskin had decided to return to Arkham, where another Prometheus base was suspected. Ipswich being on the way, he had agreed to give Dr. Parker a lift. Brenda and I watched him walk to the massive bulk of Boreas' envelope and climb on board. We turned Lady I south. Father would take the first turn at the helm, Carl next, then Fatin.

Brenda and I went to our cabin, got into our pyjamas. I turned down the lamps. She settled down in the bed above me.

"Brenda?"

"Hm?"

"Were you ever at the Belian-Ibelin mine?"

There was a pause before she answered.

"No. Heard some of the Jungs talk about it though." There was a sudden edge to her voice. "Sounded like they had fun there."

I saw again in my mind's eye the corpses, rotting and bloated, heard the deafening noise of the flies.

"What Slate is doing is the next step on the ladder for Humanity. We'll look on the world of today like we look on the stone age now."

"Yeah."

"Maybe this new world will save us all."

"Slate don't look like he's gonna save anyone."

"Put me within a mile of him with my rifle, and I'll have his head. I don't care what Riley says. People with morals can pick up where he left off."

"That's me out then," said Brenda.

"Don't say that. You never wanted to be with Prometheus. There are things you won't do."

Brenda's head appeared over the edge of the bed. "I bet you think I'm a nice girl. Just fell in with the wrong crowd, but heart in the right place?"

"Um," I said, never short an answer.

"Well I ain't." Brenda lay back down. "When I left the Corps, I got in with a crowd that made Slate's crowd look like goddamn toy soldiers."

I kept silent, afraid to ask.

"That business where they wanted me to put the screws on you." She turned over. "Wasn't things I won't do, it was things I won't ever do again."

I got out from under the blankets, stood up. Brenda was lying in bed with her back to the world. I touched her shoulder and she snapped round to me.

"What?" she snarled.

"You never wanted to do it. They made you."

Brenda looked at me for a few moments. "You giving me a pardon, Tennant? Is that what you're doing? What I've done ain't yours to forgive."

I closed my eyes for a moment. "You're right. It isn't. But in that horrible place, you gave me water. You gave me hope. You carried me back to my family. I don't know what went on before, and I don't care. Without you I would have given up, that Klemm woman would have tired of me, and I would be dead now. Beyond that, I don't give a damn."

I went back to my bed, pulled the blanket over me. Just before I fell asleep, I heard her voice.

"Glad to help."

 

---

 
I woke up, not to a noise, but to a silence, which can be just as startling. The familiar soporific drone of the engines had stopped, and Lady I was rocking back and forth in the wind. I got out of bed. Above me, Brenda was still sound asleep. I pulled on my slippers, walked to the bridge, but there was nobody there at the wheel. A quick look at the gauges told me that the engines were off the boil, and that the envelopes had been pumped up, so that Lady I was floating at an altitude of some thirty thousand feet, wherever the wind would take her. I walked to the engine rooms, and looked in to find Father and Carl half inside the engine.

"Engine trouble?"

Carl looked at me over his shoulder. "No my sister, Father dropped his pipe in the engine and we're looking for it. Yes we are having engine trouble."

"Oh. What seems to be the problem?"

"If we knew that, we would have the engine going again by now."

"So why aren't we flying on the other engine? Or has that broken down too?"

Father emerged from the bowels of the engine. "Why don't you go and ask Mr. Parsons? He's in the other engine room fixing Itzel."

"Well, there's nobody at the helm. Would you like me to go?"

"And do what, play with the rudder?" Father walked round the engine, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. "Honestly, the best thing you can do is go back to bed, and be ready to take over when we are done with the engines."

"Right then," I said, and walked over to the other engine room, where Andrew had half the engine disassembled, the parts neatly lined up in rows.

Andrew didn't look up as I entered, twisting off parts of the Itzel engine, examining them closely, then adding them to his collection.

"Hello Andrew. How is it going?"

"It is not going." Andrew clearly thought I was stupid for not seeing the whole engine was lying there in parts. Anyone but Andrew would be joking. I considered my next question carefully.

"Why was the engine not working? Before you took it apart?"

"There was insufficient pressure to the turbines."

"Ah," I said. "Can you fix it? The engine?"

"Yes," said Andrew.

"How long will that take?"

"That depends on which part is leaking. I can disassemble all relevant parts in three hours. When I find the affected parts, I need to repair or replace them, then re-assemble the engine. This will take between three and five hours."

"Well, we're lucky to have you on board, Andrew. Good luck."

Andrew frowned, considering this for a few moments.

"Thank you," he said, a useful catch-all.

 
I left Andrew to his work, walked back to my cabin. I tried to be quiet, but Brenda woke up anyway.

"What's up? Why aren't the engines running?"

I kicked off my slippers, got back into bed. "Insufficient pressure to the turbines. Father and Carl are working on one engine, Andrew on the other. Would you like to bet which engine will be running first?"

"Andrew's," said Brenda, without a trace of doubt. "My mountain man can do anything better."

I pulled up the covers. "I won't bet against Andrew either. Goodnight Brenda."

 

---

 
The next morning, sure enough, Itzel was at full steam again, while Andrew had taken over from Carl and Father, and was now methodically taking apart the Iris engine. I found Carl on the bridge. We were at low altitude somewhere over the Mediterranean sea. Fatin was in the captain's chair with Raage and Stranger the cat on her lap. Raage was poking at Stranger's ears, which seemed to fascinate him endlessly as they twitched under his fingers. Stranger was taking this treatment stoically.

"We're moving again, I see?"

Carl reached out for the ailleron controls and Lady I rose up a few dozen feet.

"We are. Are the old folks up yet?"

"Haven't seen any of them. Did you find out what was wrong with the engines?"

"We have. Look on the map table."

I walked over, and picked up a piece of pipe. I stared at it.

"Carl?" I held the pipe up for him to see. "That is a bullet hole. Nine millimeter caliber."

Carl reached into his pocket and dropped a small thing into my hand. "Well spotted, dear sister of mine."

"Someone has been shooting at our engine."

"We are very lucky that the bullet didn't get into the main turbine. Andrew says there is a safety cutoff when the pressure drops suddenly. Can you imagine a bullet clattering round between those blades?"

I looked at the mangled bullet in my hand. "Someone with a gun came into the engine room and shot at our engine."

Carl glanced at me, then back at the compass. "Who might that be? Guesses?"

"Riley."

"He's not up yet. It will be interesting to find what he has to say."

 

---

 
"You're a goddamn idiot."

We were having an all-hands on the bridge, a time for frank and open exchange of ideas. We were all there except for Andrew who was still working on the engine.

"Last time I looked, I was working for Miskatonic University of Arkham, Massachusetts, in the United States of America. Goddamn Prometheus killed an entire expedition of theirs, remember? Why would I want to sabotage your engines? They've been the most useful thing in this whole circus."

"Am I? Who else would want to shoot at our engines?"

"We have your bullet, Riley." I presented the thing on the palm of my hand.

"That?" He buried his head in his hands. "What calibre do you make that?"

"Nine millimetres."

"Nine goddamn mills." He reached under his arm, and I saw Brenda tense up as he pulled out his gun. "And how do you reckon I'm gonna fire that pissin' little bullet out of this forty-five calibre hogleg here? Made by Samuel Colt hisself, bless him."

"You could have used a different gun."

"I could have put a bullet in your brain, hang on, in your head twenty times over by now. Why in Christ's name would I want to shoot anything here?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"Alexandra," said Father. "Let's not spoil the mood with undue allegations. There are ten people on board, not counting Raage. Who among us would want to destroy Lady I's engines?"

"Nobody," said Wadcroft. "We're over the Mediterranean sea. Whoever sabotaged our engines, would be stuck here with us. It's a long swim to Montpellier."

"Who among us even uses a nine-millimetre pistol?" Margaret looked at each of us in turn. "Own up."

"Our Mauser pistols are nine millimetres," said Carl. "They're locked up, though."

Wadcroft pulled out his pipe, looked at Father, put it away again. A few tons of hydrogen above your head does deprive you of ways to collect your thoughts. "Shall we find out if any are missing? Or fired recently?"

"Splendid idea," said Father. "None of them are. None of them have. I checked."

"Well then," said Wadcroft. "The shooter is among us."

Margaret raised her hand. "I am a dear old lady and above suspicion. I volunteer to call you all together and explain to you who did it."

"You once shot a chupacabra," I said. "You're a prime suspect."

Margaret sniffed. "Chupacabras don't exist. Just ask any reputable scientist."

"I have never even touched a gun," said Felicia. "Horrible things."

"Itzel and Iris are my friends," said Fatin.

Carl grinned. "Maybe Andrew got bored and wanted something to repair."

Felicia gave him a look. "Andrew does not get bored. When there is nothing to do, he works out new machines in his head."

"Well." Riley tuned his eyes to Brenda. "There's only one member of Prometheus among us."

"I quit," said Brenda. "I don't do evil anymore, I'm with the good guys now. Pay's lousy, but I really like the self-righteous glow."

The door opened. Andrew walked to the engine controls without a word, pulled a few levers, and the propellers stopped. He turned round to walk out again.

Father called out. "Andrew? What are you doing?"

Andrew turned round. "I am fixing a problem in the differential gears. To do so, the engines need to be stopped so I can disassemble the main drive shafts."

Father closed his eye a moment, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Andrew, what is the problem with the differential gears?"

"One or more of the cog wheels have become misaligned. I need to re-align them. This can be caused by abrupt changes in rotational speed of the engines, such as a brake being applied by the safety cut-off."

"How long will it take to fix the engines?"

Andrew stared ahead of him for a few moments. In his head, the gearbox came apart, then was assembled again.

"Seventy-seven to eighty-four hours depending on how many gears there are to be repaired, which is currently unknown."

"Eighty four..." Father took a breath. "Three and a half days?"

Felicia raised a finger. "Not counting breaks, eating, and sleep."

"Five days," said Carl. "Five days of floating above the seas wherever the winds take us."

"I've always wanted a holiday in the Mediterranean," said Felicia. "But I was thinking of beaches, blue seas, and handsome dark-skinned men."

Fatin laughed, got up, and put Raage into Felicia's arms. "Now all you need is land."

 

Godfrey Pike: Flying Sparks

The return of Dr. Parker - Life goals - Toys for adults - The lonely life of the sentinel - Becoming Maisie Dors - The House of Good Repute - Presents for the hunters.

 

---

 

EXAM TEST PAPERS REVEALED BY PSYCHIC POWERS?

 

Linda Davenport reporting

 

The red marks on our calendars are once more drawing near. The exams are upon us, and there will be gnashing and wailing of teeth. It seems that this year, Mr. Dirk McDuff has set his sights on the Homoeopathy tests that have the first-year students of that particular art form shaking in their boots. Mr. McDuff, who claims to be descended from Scottish Bards, and who was genuinely born with the Caul, is categorically denying having any extrasensory powers at all. In a very brief interview with the Clarion, he explained that, and I quote: "You bloody Sassenach always think we Scots are away with the Fairies. It's bloody disrespectful, and I wish you wallopers would just leave me alone!" He managed to contain his anger, and added, "I'll settle this once and for all. I will make your bloody predictions, and then you'll all see it's nothing more than superstitious nonsense!"

 

Unfortunately for the enterprising Mr. McDuff, the Clarion can now reveal that a similar scheme was tried a few years ago at Cambridge University, where an unnamed individual similarly produced a test paper by hypnosis and automatic writing. That student then sold to his fellow students the papers he so produced, for considerable amounts of money. We must warn Mr. McDuff that that particular history did not have a happy end for the student involved.

 

I must also note that though Cambridge students may have the needed softness in the head required to fall for such an obvious scam, Algernon University's students are made of sterner stuff, and we will not be fooled so easily.

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
I'm pleased to say that Algernon University will not have to advertise for a new Professor of Electromancy. Dr. Clifford Parker has returned on board Boreas, after great deeds in Paris. The poor man was rather shaken when he arrived, telling tales of being nearly blown up, shot at, man-handled by Miss Brenda Lee of Lady I, what you and I would have called 'Wednesday' on one of our busier trips. I'm afraid the Paris site is well and truly buggered. Find attached a police report on the matter from our friend at the Sûreté. I have received the copy of your dossier on Miss Lee, by the way, and I agree with you that at least it is a quick read. The picture does not do her justice, and the Yanks as usual are not inclined to cooperate.

Sparker -oh pardon me, Dr. Parker- seems very determined to start on working out his notes and assures me that soon, he will be able to tell when the Enemies are chatting to each other, perhaps even listen in on their conversations. He intends to build what he calls a 'Hermes' device at Algernon. He will not be putting any explosives in his devices as blowing up buildings is a privilege only granted to the Alchemists. I remain skeptical, but nil desperandum as they say.

I have in front of me a number of transcribed messages from young Wainwright, and like the ones from Dr. Parker, they are complete gibberish. I will take them to Dr. Adleman and see if his cryptanalysis skills are up to the job. If not, I'll send them over to your lot at Bletchley Park.

 
I am happy to say that the Rifle Club is still going strong, though membership seems to have stabilised now at about two dozen boys and girls. The University has built a nice little shed by the range with a proper gun and ammo locker. Young Miss Christa Whelan has added a small petroleum stove, a kettle and a teapot, which is an excellent initiative. The original hard core of students recruited by Miss Tennant are all still here, and instructing their fellow snipers. Florence, Carrie, Christa, Anna, Rina, Linda, Nigel, and Bertram have all developed their skills to the point where they can reliably hit a bullseye at eight hundred yards. Miss Jocelyn Vale, who you will remember hit nothing but bullseyes at the tournament last year, varies. I have caught her whispering the mantra of voluntas that I taught our team as a label for the shooting state of mind, and still missing.

Yesterday evening, I was supervising the founding members at the range. Jocelyn was hitting eights, nines, and the occasional bullseye, and I could see her mind was elsewhere. Since it was getting late and the sun was going down, I called final rounds. With all the rifles brushed out and stored, Jocelyn was the last to leave. She hovered in the corner of my eye for a while, then started towards the dorms. I called her, and asked her what was wrong.

"Nothing," she said.

"Don't tell me that," I said. "Your groups were all over the place."

"I've been thinking," she said.

"A bad habit," I said, "But I must admit that I occasionally fall to its temptation."

She laughed at my bad joke, Winston. Girls her age should just roll their eyes. "About working for the Secret Service. I still want to do it."

I gave her a long look, and dark eyes looked back at me, without flinching, without turning away.

I sighed. "It's not an easy job, Jocelyn."

"I know."

"No. You don't. Nobody knows before they have done it. I'm an old spy, and even I have not seen the worst. Those who do, usually don't come back to tell the tale."

Jocelyn looked away. "I would have to become as good as you."

Ah, Winston. Flattery coming from a pretty young girl. My one weakness, and I was, of course, helpless to resist it. Also it was time to find out what Miss Vale was made of.

"Come with me."

I took her to my chambers, hung up her uniform jacket, sat her in the same chair as before, poured us both a glass of Madeira wine. I clinked my glass to hers. She took a tiny sip.

"You are very beautiful." I said.

"Thank you."

"In this business, that can be a disadvantage. People who see you will not forget you. But you can also use it to your advantage." I looked her up and down suggestively. "Persuade men and even women to give you things they might otherwise be unwilling to give you. Sweeten a deal, if you will."

Jocelyn's eyes didn't leave mine as her hand went to the top button of her blouse, and undid it. She gave me a little smile.

"First one is free, but if you think you're getting another button without offering me something in return, you are sorely mistaken."

"Oh come on," I said. "I told you you're beautiful and gave you a glass of wine."

"I already know I'm beautiful, and this stuff..." Jocelyn pushed the glass towards me with one finger. "Tastes horrible."

Here was a girl of seventeen, maybe eighteen years old, Winston. I had suggested to her that she might persuade me with sexual favours, and she had played along. I had no more intention of accepting any such offers than she had of making good on them, and she knew it. We spies live or die on our ability to read people. She trusted me, but would she trust just anyone? She seemed calm. If she was simply pretending to be confident, then she was good at it. I was not ready to offer her a job just there and then, but simply to send her away would have been a criminal waste. I gave her a little nod.

"Very well Jocelyn. I'll give you something." I raised my hand as she smiled and reached for the second button. "And you won't even have to do that."

I went to my wardrobe, and pulled from it a leather satchel that I rarely use, but always take with me whenever there is a new place to call home. From it, I took a file that I have kept with me to remind me never to do again the thing that I was now, in fact, doing. Please don't tell Quentin, Winston. Even after all these years, the wounds are still open. I put the folder on my desk in front of Jocelyn. On it, in large bold letters, was the name: Maisie Dors.

Jocelyn looked at the folder, then up at me, questioning.

"This, Jocelyn, is what we call a cover. It is a personality. A role. A secret identity if you will." I made a small gesture. "Go ahead. Read it."

Jocelyn opened the file and looked at the first page. Her full name - Margaret Nora Dors. Parents' names, addresses. The next pages described her childhood. Loving parents, a country school. She was the unpopular unregarded girl. Bullied by some of the older girls. Few friends, no boys. Good at English, bad at Maths. Favourite pastime sitting underneath a large tree, scribbling poems in a little book that was at some point taken away from her, read out loud in class. Lover of animals, especially cats. Picker-up of birds fallen out of the nest. Graduated, full marks at English and History, heels over the ditch for Maths. Job at the local library, stayed with her parents. Never been kissed till she was eighteen years old, by a boy who traded her in for a blonde after a few weeks. Father was killed in a factory accident when she was twenty. Move to a smaller house. Mother drowning her sorrow in gin. Fights. Maisie finally leaving home aged twenty two. Making for the Big City to find her fortune and maybe even happiness. I still know every word of that cover, Winston.

I watched Jocelyn as she read, now smiling, now scowling. Her eyes opened wide as she got to the more interesting parts.

"She worked in a whorehouse?"

"Yes," I said. "As a chambermaid and waitress. Not a job for the faint of heart."

"Yechh!"

"As you rightly say, yechh." I pointed at the folder. "Take it with you. It's yours. Read it."

"You want me to play her?"

"No. I want you to become Maisie Dors. When you think you can be her, or if you have any questions, come see me. Don't tell anyone. Don't let anyone else see it." I tapped the side of my nose in the approved Secret Service manner. "Operational Secrecy. If I think you're good enough, I'll let you take Maisie out for a run."

 
God forgive me, Winston. I may have set a nice young girl on a path that will lead to her suffering and death. And also, I may have saved her from a life of boredom. Which is worse, I honestly cannot say.

 
Yours,

Pike

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
This afternoon, Dr. Parker honoured me with his presence. He has made considerable progress. Working on the principle that it is easier to be forgiven than to get permission, he has run copper wires all the way from the top of Algernon University's bell tower to his workshop in the Physics department. A strange cage-like structure now adorns the tower top, which he calls an 'antenna'. Using this antenna, he is able to listen in on the Prometheus lot chattering at each other. So far, he cannot tell what they are saying, but he does know who is talking, because each of the stations transmits on its own frequency, or so he says. One of his undergrad students is working on a device to interprete the signals coming to us through the luminiferous aether.

Strapped to his back was a fairly large and heavy wooden crate covered with nervously shimmering lights. A vaguely acidic smell came from the device, as well as faint crackling noises. You can say what you want, Winston, but I don't hold with dabbling in the Occult, and I'll not have eldritch emanations in my chambers, thank you very much. But Sparker assured me that this was perfectly safe. He is a proper Doctor, so what can I say? In his hand was a weird metal fish-bone like structure which he pointed at my stomach.

"I just w-w-wanted to show you this, Pike." He thankfuly pointed the thing away from me. "One of my undergrads c-came up with this. Bright chap. Exchange student from Nippon, named Uda."

"Splendid," I said. It is never wise to argue with people holding weapons or magic wands.

"Now the antenna on the t-t-tower is unidirectional. Transmits and receives with a circular characteristic. But this antenna..." He pointed it at me again and I politely pushed it away. "has an asymmetrical lobe characteristic so it will be more sensitive in the direction where you point it."

"Wonderful," I said. "But what..."

He pointed at the device in his hand. It had a kind of pistol grip, and in the place where the hammer would be, it had a strange sort of green eye.

"I just turned my transmitter on. Now watch."

Sparker slowly swept the wand round, and I could see that the 'eye' became now narrower, then wider. He swept back to the point where the eye was narrowest. As it happened, he was pointing out of my window, which has a nice view of the bell tower a few hundred yards away. His wand was pointing straight at it.

"Now where do you think I've put my antenna?"

"Ah," I said.

"If they're talking, we know where they are. Well up to a point. You need to be within a couple hundred miles of them unless they are using a much bigger transmitter than mine." He grinned. "Do you think you can find a use for this, Doctor Pike?"

"You know, Dr. Parker," I said. "I think I can."

And with that, he bade me farewell and returned to his lair. Honestly, Winston, they should just give him the tower. It's the proper place for wizards. If, no when more progress is made, I'll let you know.

 
Yours,

Pike

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
This morning one of Sparkers apprentices, a spotty youth named Virgil, came to my door and summoned me into the presence of the Dread Wizard Sparker. All right, Winston. I admit it, this joke has grown old.

Sparker's laboratory was a hive of activity. All manner of unworldly apparatus were lined up against the wall, to make room for a construction area of some kind. There was a machine for drawing electrical wires running at full tilt using a small steam engine. Two of Dr. Parker's apprentices were carefully winding copper wires onto wooden spools, while a third was fashioning small bottles out of a glass tube with a blowtorch. An apprentice of Nipponese appearance was sawing metal rods, which his friend was attaching to a center beam. Several of these devices were neatly lined up on the table, looking like one of the fish skeleton collections in the Biology department.

At the end of the longest table was a wooden box with V-shaped pair of metal rods on top. A small arc of lightning ran up the rods, disappeared at the top of the device, only to reappear at the bottom.

I pointed at it. "What is that for?"

"That?" said my guide. "Atmosphere."

"You are changing the Earth's atmosphere?"

Virgil gave me a strange look. "No. It just looks pretty. Don't touch it. The electric tension on it is is very high."

"Wouldn't dare," I muttered.

Dr Sparker walked up. "Morning, Dr. P-Pike! W-what do you think of my laboratory?"

"Very nice atmosphere, I must say."

"Oh, that's just the ozone from the Jacob's ladder. Nothing to w-worry about. We're c-catching up with P-p-prometheus."

"What news from across the Globe?"

"Let me show you."

He took me to a separate corner of the lab, where a nighmarish device stood. Small lights glowed and dimmed, metal wires snaked here and there. On a panel were rows of lights marked with the letters of the alphabet, numbers, and assorted punctuation. Other lights showed the names of the various cities. Sparker saw me staring at it.

"Never mind the mess," he said. "This is the first p-p-prototype. I'll p-put it in a cabinet when I finish it."

At that moment, the light marked "BONA SPEI" or "Good Hope" came on, and with a furious clicking noise, the letter lights lit up, one after the other. It stopped at the letter F, then turned off again. As we watched, the light ran towards Y, waited there a moment, turned off, then ran up to N, and so on.

"We've stopped writing them down," said Parker. "We have dozens of these messages in the book if you want them."

"Yes please. I'm about to see Dr. Adleman about them."

He reached into a cupboard and handed me a letter-size notebook. In it, neatly time-stamped, were messages of complete gibberish from various places in the world.

"I have finished work on the transmitter. So I can now talk as well as listen. Also." Sparker grinned. "I can set my transmission frequency any way I like. So I can pretend to be Slate if I want."

I took a slow breath. "Please tell me you haven't done that. Slate would spot it immediately, and then he'd know not to trust any transmission without verification."

"P-please. I'm not an idiot, you know? I've been using an unused fequency for testing. Nobody will even know I am testing."

"How do you know that... frequency is not occupied?"

"We monitor every frequency between thirty and three hundred kilocycles on a wide filter. Even if the bastards start using a new one, I'll be waiting for them." Parker, for the first time since I'd met him, looked me straight in the eye. "George died so we could have this information, Pike. They wouldn't let me look at him. If Riley, Miss Tennant and that little painted tramp hadn't wanted to know where the nearest trough was, I'd be dead now. Prometheus they call themselves? I'll rip their bloody livers out myself."

George. Mr. George Bennett, agent of Miskatonic University. He was the one listening in on Prometheus' witterings at Paris. He and Dr. Parker seem to have got on quite well, even in such a short time. Though we mustn't read too much into this, Winston. Still, it seems to motivate Dr. Parker, and if there is one thing to be feared by shadowy types like us, it is the concentrated effort of an intelligent man with but a single obsession.

 
I picked up my book of secrets, and made my way to the chambers of Dr. Adleman. I showed him Parker's book and Wainwright's reports. He took a quick glance at them.

"Have you tried to decypher these texts yourself?"

"We haven't been successful, I'm afraid. Can't make heads or tails of it. The organisation we are dealing with is extremely advanced in its scientific abilities. We need the assistance of the finest minds in cryptanalysis. Hence, we thought of you."

Adleman nodded, possibly immune to flattery. "Well then, let's see what we can find."

He pulled out a few sheets of paper and started going through the messages. As far as I could see, he was simply counting the number of occurrences of each letter. He frowned, looked up at me.

"Do you know what language these messages are written in?"

"The last messages before they started to encrypt them were English, though they seem to like Latin."

Adleman grunted, and continued his game of counting letters. He frowned.

"Is this some sort of joke?"

"I assure you, it isn't."

Adleman stabbed a finger down on the notebook. "This, Doctor Pike, is a Caesar cipher. A substitution cipher of the most imbecilic kind. They don't even vary their encryption key!"

"I'm afraid I don't follow," I said.

"For every letter in the Roman alphabet, your scientific geniuses substitute a different letter. Julius Caesar would substitute a letter three spaces to the left in the alphabet. So a D would become an A, an E would become a B, and so on. Your amateur cryptographers use..." he looked. "Oh I might have known. Thirteen. They rotate their alphabet by thirteen spaces." He gave me a sarcastic little grin. "Do you know why, Doctor Pike?"

"No."

"Two times thirteen is..."

"Twenty six," I said. I should be honoured to be taught primary school maths by one of the finest mathematical minds in the whole University, but I would have been even more pleased if he got to the point. I already know I'm stupid, Winston. I was looking for new information.

"Does that number hold any significance to you?"

"Um," I said, but I said it in Latin. Just to show him.

"Twenty six letters in the alphabet doctor. This means that in order to decrypt this cipher, they merely need to encrypt it again, and the plain text will appear clear as day! So for this one, for instance..." He wrote down the message on his notepad. Then, he wrote underneath it.

 

GURER VF AB GVZR YVXR GUR CERFRAG

 

THERE IS NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT

 
I stared at this new revelation. "Why would they want to send something like that?"

Adleman shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe these are key phrases, each with a specific meaning. Prussian spies in England would put coded messages in personal advertisements in the newspaper. Maybe it simply means that they are still alive. Who knows? That's your department, Doctor." He gathered up all the papers and pushed them over to me. "My work here is done."

 
So there you have it, Winston. Prometheus are using arguably the most advanced scientific equipment in the world to send each other weakly encrypted platitudes. We live in strange times indeed. Investigations are ongoing.

 
Yours,

Pike.

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
Please find included a message from Agent Wainwright, currently slowly melting in a disused Khartoum mosque:

 

Dear Dr Pike,

 

I have been here in the Ahmad Suleiman Masjid, named after a local imam, for twelve days now, during which time I have transcribed an estimated three hundred and forty messages, without missing even one, except for those transmitted in my brief hours of sleep. Please find these included with these letters. All of them without exception are encrypted, or in a language not of this Earth.

 

Weather continues sunny. Mr. Moghadam's functionaries keep me warm, fed, watered, and safe. They do not like to approach the Device, as they believe it to be infested with every malevolent spirit known to Islam. Much as I would wish to dismiss this as the superstitions of the impressionable, I can see what might lead them to believe this. They are happy for me, a disposable kafir, to sit near it. I have persuaded them that I do not need twenty gallons of inflammable liquid near me, and we have drained the glass bottle.

 

I have had interesting conversations with several members of the Moghadam household, who have visited me at the mosque, but it would not be safe to discuss them here. I feel it would be better to discuss them in person when I return to Ipswich. Please advise how long you wish me to continue my vigil. If our experts cannot break this code, there would seem to be little point in me staying here for much longer.

 

Yours warmly, Wainwright.

 
On the face of it, I would assume that our intrepid young agent is getting tired of his lot in life, but reading between the lines, there may be more to it than that. Perhaps things are moving that might sour the relationship between him and the Moghadam family. We might consider replacing him with one of our local agents. But that, of course, would mean an additional drain on Her Majesty's coffers. Let me know what you think.

 
Yours,

Godfrey.

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
Currently taking up most of my desk is a Hermes Device Direction Finding Instrument. It consists of a wooden trunk with shoulder straps, and a kind of wand constructed by our Nipponese students Uda and Yagi. They have gone through several tests, and this so far is their finest work. They are currently up in the bell tower constructing what they call a listening post, and the tower top now bristles with metal rods, like a butterfly's antennae smelling the air for all signs of evildoers. Is the age of espionage using the Human eye coming to an end, Winston? Can we simply stay home and have Electric wizardries do our work for us? That way, we can all retire. Now all we need to do is to put this new sniffer device in the hands of our hunters. Lady I is currently steaming towards Khartoum to join Wainwright, so we can simply put it in a standard secured expedition trunk and mail it there by air.

I paid Dr. Parker a visit in his lair, and he showed me his latest invention. No longer will we need to write down Prometheus' messages ourselves. This ingenious device notes down any incoming messages on a strip of paper, using a daisy-like wheel containing all the letters of the alphabet on its 'petals'. The incoming signals turn the correct letter up, and a little hammer punches the letter onto the paper through an ink-soaked ribbon. By simply turning the wheel half-way, all our enemies' secrets are laid bare. So far, nothing enlightening has been noted. 'There Is No Time Like The Present.' 'There Is No Other Language But French.' 'This Species Has Always Been Extinct.' Even after all of our efforts, we still haven't a notion of what Prometheus are actually saying.

 
In the mean time, Miss Jocelyn Vale has been devoting every spare moment to studying the cover I gave her. She seems to like Maisie Dors, but at the same time, she wants to give her a good kicking. It is wonderful to see her this motivated and enthusiastic again. She came to my chambers one late afternoon, with the cover stuck full of little notes and bookmarks.

"Oh, it says here that she lived next to the station, but that's closed. You have to take the omnibus into town now. But honestly, Dr. Pike." She pointed at a few pages. "Couldn't you have given her a nice boyfriend? She's just bait for rotters! This Toby character left her for someone prettier, and then there is this boy Richard, and he's already snogging this other girl at the same time as her, and she just cries a little and vanishes into the shadows. I'd have kicked him in the unmentionables!"

"I believe you, and those boys richly deserve it, don't they? But don't try to fix her. We made her like that specifically for the role she was to play in the brothel. She was meant to be in the background, unnoticed, unregarded, unappreciated. Simply a source of clean linen and bottles of champagne. If she were given to kicking men where it hurt..."

"People would notice her." Jocelyn stared out of the window. "Poor girl. I hope she finds someone nice." Her dark eyes turned to me. "I will find someone nice."

I had to look away, Winston. I am still unsure whether or not I should have done this. Still, no turning back now. I put a hand on Jocelyn's shoulder.

"I'm sure you will." I gave her the linen bag with clothes that a sad young girl might wear. "Dress up. We need some groceries."

 
I have to admit it, Winston. Miss Vale is an actress of the purest water. I took her to the greengrocer's for a bag of potatoes, carrots and onions, then to the chemist's for some headache powder. She walked into the shop with me watching her from a little way behind her. Nobody noticed anything, which is exactly what we want. Someone rudely pushed in front of her, and I watched her shrink just a little, mumble an apology, and let the woman go first. I was sorely tempted to accost her in some way, just to see how she would react, but the time for such tests is not yet come. This was only practice. As planned, she walked back while I rode in splendour in one of Algernon's carriages. She showed up at my door wearing her Algernon uniform, but carrying the bag.

"There you are, Doctor." she dropped the bag on my desk. "How did I do?"

I took an onion from the bag. "Red onions, Miss Dors? You should have known I can't abide them. I'm afraid you'll have to go back and exchange them."

"They're good for you," said Jocelyn. "Mother never bothered with the white ones. So how did I do?"

"My dear, you did well. You did not break character even once..." I waved the onion in her face. "Until now. I will have to give you something a bit more difficult next time."

"Next time? So this is a pass, then?"

"Yes." It was impossible not to smile with her. "This is a pass."

 
I'm slowly turning to the opinion that this may not have been a mistake, Winston. It is too early to say whether Miss Jocelyn Vale is truly one of us, but she shows promise. Still, there are things that give me pause. She does not understand, cannot understand, what may be in store for her. The inhuman uses to which we may put her, using her as a pawn in a game of chess that will cost her all she has to give and more. She doesn't realise that we may knowingly and willingly sacrifice her when the situation demands it. She still thinks we are the good people, she has all the ideals that old age does away with. There are so many other worthwhile pursuits for her that would not destroy that innocence.

When all is said and done, it will be her decision. It will necessarily be an uninformed decision, but nevertheless hers to make. If she wants a glimpse into the torrent of evil and depravity that is our profession, then I can give it to her.

I have decided to call in a favour from an old friend of mine, the esteemed Mrs. Fern of Club la Douce in Ipswich Harbour District. You will remember the rather unsavoury business with the young ladies abducted from Eastern Europe to serve as disposable playthings for rich degenerates. Being the Madam of a rather more salubrious establishment, Mrs. Fern offered us invaluable insights and assistance, and actually got one of the young ladies in the bargain. I will ask if I can lend her Jocelyn for a night. As a waitress I hasten to add. There is no need to plunge her into waters quite as deep as selling her favours.

I just realised something, Winston. This is as much a test for myself as it is for sad young Maisie Dors. If I can guide young Jocelyn intact through this exercise, I may be on the way to forgiving myself for the mistakes I made.

 
Yours,

Godfrey.

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
I have just born witness to Ipswich University's first intercontinental communications by electro-magnetic means. We have learnt in the blink of an eye that Lady I has arrived in Khartoum, and from there will continue on to the Cape of Good Hope, crossing the length of Africa in a week. I watched as Dr. Parker sent his first message, using the frequency of the burnt-out London site. What struck me is how simple it looked. One simply turns a knob to point at the letter one wants to transmit, then with a press of the switch, it flies across land and water to its intended destination. As an added refinement, Dr. Parker used one of the new Uda-Yagi antennas to transmit in the direction of Khartoum only, both boosting signal strength and preventing other Hermes devices from listening in, or so he said. It seems too easy, Winston. There has to be a drawback.

But be that as it may, we managed to communicate with Wainwright in far away Khartoum. He told us about the Tennants' plans, and we agreed to send a 'package' to him, poste restante Cape Town main post office. Despite Parker's assurances, I feel uncomfortable with even that message. But it can't be helped. So an expedition trunk is in the air, making its way to Cape Town, and then, our Hunters can swing into action, pursuing Prometheus wherever they may hide. Godspeed to them!

 
Yours,

Pike.

 

Agent Wainwright: A bird in a gilded cage

Relax and watch the blinking lights - Visitor in the night - An Arabian Fairytale - Property rights - Fishing for women - Long stretches of boredom - Envy for freedom - Incoming presents

 

---

 

THE SOUND OF NONSENSE

 

By Rina Prescott

 

"Water has a memory. It remembers in the frequencies of its molecules the harmonies of the substances dissolved in it. Thus, when the solution is diluted to three hundred on the centessimal scale, the potency is increased by a corresponding amount due to the vital energy imparted by secession."

 

Doesn't this sound profound? Doesn't this sound scientific? Doesn't this have the ring of truth about it? I know the meaning of each of the words above, but I have never seen them assembled in that particular manner. This, dear Reader, is gibberish of the worst description. As a rule of thumb, the more obscure the verbiage - oh pardon me the words, the greater the chance that the speaker is simply trying to put your mind to sleep with soothing sounds, while trying to sound wise and knowledgeable. This, like similar arts such as Electromancy, Necromancy, and Spiritualism, are the so-called 'study' of things unseen, unproven, and intractable, and dare I say it, unscientific.

 

There are in this world but two kinds of quack. Those who deceive and delude their audiences, and those who delude and deceive themselves as well as their audiences. Should such things really be in the curriculum of a serious University?

 
Nice, but where did you get that quote? -- LD McDuff gave me one of his predictions for free, under the condition we don't publish the whole of it. What a load of tosh! -- RP You what?! Honestly, that's tainted material! If this McDuff business goes up the spout, we don't want any of that in our publication. -- LD Very well. I'll go and seduce a Homoeopathy student and sneak a peek at his textbook. Honestly, the things you make me do for journalistic integrity. -- RP Good. -- LD

 

---

 
It was a quiet night in the disused Ahmad Suleiman Masjid, where I sat observing the doings of the Hermes Device, trying in vain to listen in on the conversations of the Enemy.

I am not an overly religious man. When I lived with my parents in Norwich, Mother dragged me into the Cathedral every Sunday. Like the good boy I was, I stood up, sat down, and kneeled in prayer when asked, listened to or at least didn't fall asleep during the Vicar's sermons, then returned home having fulfilled my duty to our Heavenly Father. I stopped going to Church after I left home, and the toils and hardships of my job eroded away any faith I might have had in an omnipotent and benevolent Being.

Still, I can never help feeling slightly unwelcome as an Unbeliever in the place of worship of another faith. Almost as if Allah is sneering and asking me what I am doing here. It was hard not to feel in my spine the presence of something beyond our five senses. The eerie shimmering lights on the Device. The way in which its alphabetic clock would spring to life like a spirit board that needed no hands upon it, speaking in unknowable languages of our ruin.

I had just finished transcribing another message when the women's door opened, which was strange. Even now this place was no longer a mosque, the men who guarded, fed, and watered me would never enter through the women's door. As I turned round, a woman dressed all in black niqab came in. She stopped a moment, saw the Device, came towards me.

I stood up, nodded my head. "Salam Aleikum."

"Wo alukom al salam." The woman took the veil from her face.

I'm afraid my mouth fell open. "Mrs. Moghadam?"

"Did I not ask you to call me by my own name, Agent Wainwright?"

"Najilah."

I slowly breathed in, as several questions came to me. What was she doing here? How had she got past the guards? What would happen if she were found here? She looked at my face, at my confusion and fear. I took a breath.

"Does your husband know you are here?"

"Don't be stupid, Agent Wainwright." She looked into my eyes with a sarcastic little smile. "If he would walk through that door, both our lives would be forfeit. Isn't it exciting?"

Personally, I would not have described it like that, but I suppose it was close enough. Mrs. Moghadam -Najilah- turned round, took a few steps.

"What are you doing here?"

"Um," I pointed. "I am watching the Device."

"Do you think someone will come and steal it?" She looked over her shoulder, bright eyes gleaming in the shadow of her hood. "Will you have to defend it with your life?"

"Hardly." I sighed. "When the lights come on, I toggle the switch and write down which letters the clock points at."

She walked back to me, so close I could smell her perfume. "That does not sound like the work of a daring English spy."

I shrugged. "Most of the job doesn't. Most of it is quite boring."

"Boring? You do not know boredom."

Najilah walked to the only chair in the place and sat down in it. One of the lights came on, but I ignored it. She turned her eyes away, sat perfectly still for a few moments.

"I was a child when I met my husband. My parents sold tapestries. Good, expensive, quality tapestries. Then one day, Ahmad came with one of the servants to buy a new carpet to hang on his bedroom wall. He saw me, and..." She raised her arms. "Fell in love with me."

"How could he not?" I said.

Najilah sneered. "I probably caused his cock to rise for the first time. But from that moment, he knew he had to have me. I have to say, my parents did not approve. But then, my husband's father offered them a choice of either a pile of gold, or a quick visit from a man with a very sharp dagger. They chose... wisely." Najilah's piercing bright eyes turned to me. "I converted to Islam that very day, said my first salah al-Maghrib the same evening. I was fourteen years old, Agent Wainwright. My husband was eighteen. It was a beautiful wedding."

I looked at her, said nothing.

"It was a beautiful wedding night."

I kept silent. What could I say? Najilah studied my face closely, clearly amused at what she saw.

"Can you imagine my wedding night, Agent Wainwright? Can you imagine how he pushed me through the door, eager to taste the delights hidden under my wedding dress?" She got up from her chair, walked up close to me, almost but not quite touching me. "Can you imagine how he ripped the clothes from my body? Threw me onto the bed? How he raised his skirts, not even bothering to take them off in his lust? A grown man, forcing his member into a young girl, a child? Do you hear my screams? Loud to start with, but growing softer until finally he was sated? Do you imagine the blood and seed trickling down my thighs? Are those the images in your civilised mind, Agent Wainwright?"

"I... I can't imagine..."

Najilah looked at my face and laughed out loud.

"Well, you would be wrong. I could not have undressed myself faster. I loved every moment, every second, every touch, every thrust. The sharp pain like hot spices, the hunger, the taking of pleasure, the satiation of that hunger. Again, and again, and again. Does that shock you? Agent Wainwright?" She turned round, took a few steps, looked back at me. "Do you want to know what I enjoyed most? It was the power I had over him. That night, I learnt how easy men are to manipulate. How easy they are to please. I can get from my husband anything I want, and I have a limitless supply of that what he wants from me in return. He can force me to please him. When I refuse him, and I do sometimes, he can beat me into submission and take from me what he wants. And he has. But only because I have made him do so." Najilah came close to me. Her face was no more than an inch away from mine. "But if he wants me at my best, if he wants the sweetest fruit I have to offer..." Her smile was at the same time the most alluring and the most frightening thing. "Then he must beg. And he does."

I didn't move for a few long moments, hands away from her even though the punishment would be the same whether I did nothing or... not.

"Why are you here, Najilah?"

"Do you think I am here to offer you again that which rightly belongs to my husband?" She laughed. "It is not my habit to repeat an offer, once it has been refused." She sat back down in the chair. "Tell me of your adventures, Agent Wainwright. Tell me what this poor little slave girl is missing."

 
I had to think. What was he best part of being in the Secret Service?

"There was a ship," said I.

Najilah leaned back, looking at me. "What kind of ship?"

"It was a trawler, such as we have in England to fish the North Sea for cod. But it didn't catch any fish. In its hold were young girls from Czechoslovakia, Romania, other Balkan countries. The sailors called them 'mermaids'. They were on their way to London, to be used in ways one does not like to think about."

"Little kafir whores," said Najilah. "For men who are too weak to maintain a real woman."

"These girls were no whores. They were taken from normal, simple families. Someone's daughter. Someone's sister. Not much older than you were at your wedding. We only knew of them because two of them escaped. They were arrested by the Felixstowe police for being 'drunk and disorderly'. They weren't. They had been forced to drink large doses of laudanum, to make them... pliable. Their final destination would have been a private insane asylum. Men could come there, and rent or buy them."

"What, like I was bought by my dear father in law?"

"They would never have left the asylum either way." After all these years, and many times explaining it to magistrates, policemen, and other officials, I could keep my voice steady. "If you only rented them, they were expected to come out of their rooms alive. In a fit state for the next customer."

Najilah shrugged. "English men are pigs."

"This pig, and his sty full of fellow pigs, raided the ship these girls came in on, found the asylum, sailed the ship to where the next load was waiting, and rolled up the entire gang of slave smugglers."

"You stopped the trade in kafir whores. Well done. Did you put all these men to death, or did you offer to feed them for a few years before letting them go?"

I looked at the Hermes device. One of the lights came on, but I ignored it. After a few moments, it extinguished itself.

"I don't care whether those men live or die. If there's one thing this job teaches you, it's that there will never be a shortage of depraved arseholes. But we pulled twenty-five girls off that boat, and out of their holding cells in Le Havre, and found out who they were. Twenty-four of them, we sent back to their families." I leaned against the Device. "I still get the occasional letter from them."

"Twenty-four? What happened to the last one?"

I gave a little chuckle. "She decided to apply for a job in England. Rumour has it she's quite good at it, though I have never seen fit to find out for myself."

 
The 'BONA SPEI' light came on again. I gave Najilah a look till she got up from my chair. I sat down, copied the message into the book. Najilah stood behind me, watching me. I turned back to her.

"You didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?"

She stared at the qibla wall for a moment. "Some five years ago, I wanted to see my parents. I escaped from the house, and went to their market stall. They did not wish to talk to me, so I left. As I walked, two men came out of an alley, grabbed me. Pulled me away, tried to violate me. I fought them, with all my strength, but they were stronger. They tore away my clothes, made ready to have their way with me, but then James T. Riley came and shot them in the head with his pistol. He took me to a room, gave me a burqa to wear, and brought me home in secret, so that nobody ever knew I was gone."

"I am sorry that happened to you."

Najilah sneered. "He was not. For now, he owned me. I could not refuse him, for if I had, he would reveal some intimate detail about me, and I would be stoned to death for having intercourse outside of marriage. Years later, he asked me to open a window so that another one of his little whores could climb inside and steal documents from us."

"I think I know of this."

"I imagine you do. Alexandra Tennant. So full of spirit. So full of righteousness. I spoke with her. But she escaped." Najilah turned round. "You with your harem of twenty-five virgins. She with her airship and her adventures. And here I sit, waiting for my husband's cock to rise, so that I can please him and gain another gold trinket. I am alive, but I do not live. Coming here in the night. Talking to you. It is a little drop of water in an endless desert."

She stood up straight, put the dark veil back over her face, turned to me one more time. "Never since the day I was born, have I felt more alive than when I was fighting for my life in the clutches of those pigs that wanted to rape me. This?" She raised her hand, indicating the mosque, the Device, the night, and me. "It is all that I can have. Good night, Agent Wainwright."

And without another word, she turned round, walked through the women's door, and was gone.

 
One of the lights on the Device came on, and I frowned. It was the London light! I had seen the London device destroyed, almost taking me with it. Had Prometheus built another hideout in London? I grabbed the book, and noted down the letters. So concentrated was I on writing down the letters that I didn't realise until I was done that I could read it.

 

WHEN LADY I ARRIVES TELL THEM TO WAIT. INCOMING PACKAGE. SPARKER.

 
"Well," I said, to nobody in particular.

Alexandra Tennant: The enemy among us

Ups and downs - Working conditions - Safety lines - Down the hatch - Healthy exercise

 

---

 

A BATTLE OF CULINARY MINDS

 

Linda Davenport reporting

 

This afternoon your reporters were witness to a veritable clash of the Chefs. Chef Oliver was observed storming out of the door in full Chef's regalia, apron, and 'Toque Blanche'. When your reporters caught up with him, Chef Oliver was observed in a frank and open discussion with Mr. Atkins of Atkins fish and chips. He was observed by a number of rather startled looking students.

 

Chef Oliver accused Mr. Atkins loudly of serving rubbish to the students whose dietary well-being was his responsibility. Mr. Atkins took umbrage, and proffered a fish to Chef Oliver, nearly slapping him with it. 'How dare you!' he exclaimed. 'This fish was swimming off the coast of Ipswich not a full day ago! The potatoes were grown not ten miles from this place! This food is consumed in good faith by millions of Britons, who thank God for its bounty!'

 

Chef Oliver snatched the food from a nearby student and held it up. 'This fish is dripping in grease! You are poisoning my students! They will grow fat and short of breath, and their ill health will be on your hands!'

 

'Please sir, may I have that back?' asked the student whose lunch Chef Oliver had just offered in evidence. Chef Oliver glared at him, and hurled it into the bin. 'You come to my kitchen, my boy, and I will cook you something proper myself.' Mr. Atkins growled, eyes narrowing at Chef Oliver. 'Oh no he won't. I'll get you a fresh one. No need to go to this pretentious git.' Chef Oliver pointed at his hat. 'Do you know what this means, Atkins? Every pleat in this hat signifies a way to cook an egg, and I know them all.' Mr. Atkins pointed at a jar of pickled eggs. 'I know only one, but these children actually want to eat them.' Chef Oliver returned his gaze with equal force, assured Mr. Atkins that the last word on the matter hadn't been spoken, and marched off to prepare this evening's dinner.

 

Tonight's dinner will be a casserole of seasonal vegetables in a dark soy sauce. Don't be late.

 

---

 
For a while, Carl and I moved Lady I up and down, searching for a north wind that would blow us to Africa, but the Mediterranean Sea, often the scene of storms, now perversely refused to give us anything but a slight breeze that didn't even ruffle my hair. We were thrown back to the days of Joseph-Michel and Jacques-Étienne Montgolfier, who had nothing but their flame and their instinct for the air currents to make their balloon go where they wanted. I imagine the Montgolfier brothers did not have to worry which one of them had shot some essential part of their apparatus. I still suspected Riley, in spite of everything. I simply could not imagine anyone else being secretly in league with Prometheus, not even Brenda.

About ten feet below us, the Mediterranean Sea lay serene and calm. The sun was beating down on Lady I's upper deck, threatening to turn us all lobster red if we'd abide there for more than a few minutes, so we, Margaret, Felicia, Fatin, and I were gathered in the relative cool of the cargo bay next to the open bomb hatch for a bit of a cool breeze, watching Andrew work. He was heating up a large cogwheel he'd taken from somewhere inside the machinery, and bending it with tongs to get it straight. I was leaning against the bulkhead with my legs stretched out in front of me, which was more comfortable than sitting cross-legged as I used to before I got my new knees. Just one of life's many little reminders. The door opened, and Carl came out of the section of the cargo bay underneath my cabin. He was wearing nothing except short khaki trousers. In his hands was an orange cork buoy and a long rope was hanging over his shoulder. Three pairs of eyes turned appreciatively to him, even Margaret's. Honestly! Lusting over my brother, when she was old enough to be his mother?

"Is there a reason for this shameless display, dear brother of mine?"

"I'm going for a swim," said Carl.

"Carl, the engines are off. If Lady I gets blown away faster than you can swim, we won't be able to fish you out of the sea."

"Ah, but that's what this line is for."

In Lady I's cargo bay there was a hoist that was once used to move heavy bombs from where they were stored to the bomb bay doors. From there, the French rather carelessly dropped them onto the Prussians in the trenches below. It had an endless chain to lower and raise the hook, and even a well-proportioned young lady like myself could easily raise a load of three thousand pounds or so. We now used it to move crates in and out of Lady I. Carl pulled it over on its rail, lowered the hook, and attached the rope with a double bowline. He tied the other end to the buoy and tossed it into the sea. Next, he added a rope ladder to the side of the bomb bay. "There. Now if our Lady feels the need to move, I can grab the safety line and pull myself up. Are you joining me?"

"My knees will rust," I said.

Andrew, on his way to the in-envelope deck, heard that. He turned to me. "The Replacement Human Knee Joints Mk.1 are made from chromium steel and are designed to operate in a wet saline environment for up to fifty years. Furthermore, they are encased in skin and muscle tissue that will keep the sea water from touching them. Swimming in sea water will have no effect."

I looked at the wet saline environment between my shins and thighs. My new knees did not have a kneecap, and were a little larger than the ones Mother had given me. Pale scars showed where Dr. Singh had cut my skin for repairs. The dark welts of the ropes had mostly faded, leaving only a red shadow of the memories. I looked up into Andrew's dark eyes that never showed emotion. I considered telling him I had been joking.

"Thank you Andrew," I said instead.

Without even a nod, Andrew turned round and left for the in-envelope deck to put the cogwheel back where it belonged. We watched him go. Carl turned to me.

"No more excuses Sister. Down the hatch you go."

"I have to get my swimsuit."

"Go on then." He pointed a finger at me. "If I have to come and get you there will be trouble. Fatin?"

Fatin stared at the buoy, serenely floating in the calm waters where Carl had dropped it. Her eyes turned to Carl, and she said something to him in her own language. Carl only laughed, walked up to the edge of the hatch and leapt off. He landed in the water with a big splash. I looked at Fatin.

"What was it you told him?"

Fatin thought a moment on the translation. "If biting fish eat him, he will not be sleeping in the bed with me."

There were shouts from below. "Come on in! The water's lovely!"

Fatin looked at me. I looked at Fatin. She broke out in a big grin, gave Raage to Margaret, dropped her skirt, pulled her blouse over her head, and leapt into the water. And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed. Felicia walked to the edge, looked down on Carl and Fatin splashing about, trying to push each other under as if they were in the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens rather than hundreds of miles away from the nearest dry land.

I turned to Margaret and Felicia. "Anyone else coming?"

"I didn't bring a bathing suit," said Felicia.

"I am on child care duties." Margaret held Raage up as evidence.

"Suit yourself," I said.

Women these days wear rather drab little dresses for swimming, made of a fabric that does not stretch when wet, and more importantly does not go transparent like some khakis, tweeds or linens. Except when they want to achieve any speed in the water at all. Then they wear something rather more tight fitting round the chest to reduce drag, without skirts. Back at boarding school, I spent about two months in the girls swim team, until I found that most of the lady swimmers were in it to attract boys rather than to swim faster. I could outswim most of them, especially in the back stroke, but that was not exactly 'winning'. I hung up my swimsuit and joined the rifle team instead, and came third in the national cross-school shooting contest. I never did attract more than maybe one or two boys. But that, as they say, is another story.

When Father sold the place in Windsor Gardens, the movers packed up our belongings in crates and carted them to Algernon University where they were put in a secure store normally used for expedition equipment. When Lady I came to Ipswich for the first time, we stored all the crates out of the way in the section of the cargo hold underneath the sleeping cabins where once rows of thousand-pound bombs lay waiting to be dropped on the trenches. When Father bought her, all the weapons had been taken out, cannons, bombs and all. We had put in a pair of very advanced repeating cannons for self defence, but since we were not at war with the Prussians, we had turned the bomb bay into a cargo hold. One of the things that I hadn't unpacked into my cabin were my swimsuits. I found the crate marked "Bedroom, Alexandra Tennant", and found not just one but two of them. I put the lid back on the crate and walked back into the cargo bay.

"Felicia?" I held up the bathing suit. "I have one you can borrow."

"Um..." said Felicia.

The phrase 'I don't have a bathing suit' can mean several things, among which 'I would love to go for a refreshing swim if I only had one,' or 'Please convince me to go swimming without one,' or even 'You want me to go swimming here? Are you completely out of your mind?'

"Do... do you think it'd fit me? You are a bit more developed round the upper areas than I am."

"I wasn't when I was fourteen," I said. I put the suit on a nearby supply crate containing tinned food. "Feel free if you change your mind."

I walked up the mess hall stairs to my cabin, changed quietly so as not to disturb Brenda who was asleep after her night watch on the bridge, and padded back to the cargo bay on bare feet. I looked down. Carl, ever the gentleman, was holding Fatin in his arms to keep her from drowning, and selflessly sharing his breath with her.

"Look out below!"

I leapt down head first. I broke the surface, shot a dozen feet or so under the clear water, and stayed there for a few moments, my hair floating round my face. Looking up, I saw the forms of Carl and Fatin against the shimmering sunlight. I kicked myself up, with my knees only making a token protest, like a weary grumble when before they would have been screaming. I grabbed hold of Carl's ankle and pulled him down as I shot up. Fatin looked rather relaxed about watching her man disappear into the depths. She scooped up a handfull of water and poured it back.

"It's salt!"

"Well yes, it's the sea. Seas are salty." At that moment, there was a large hand on top of my head and I went under. I rolled up, put my feet against Carl's stomach and pushed. I came up a few feet away, spluttering.

"Look Fatin," said Carl. "Witches float."

I hit him square in the face with a splash of water. He came at me with an ominous look in his eye, and I kicked off in a front crawl. Carl could outrun me now. I was about to find out if I could still outswim him. It took me a while to get my leg strokes right. So much of what we do depends on the memory not in the brain, but in the very muscles themselves. I soon found my technique back, and I swam not even to get away from Carl, but for the sheer pleasure of speed. After a while I turned round, and saw Carl far behind. Enjoying my victory, I looked up at Lady I. As airships go, she is small. Andrew's engines could power a much larger vessel. But a four hundred foot cigar shape should still not just hang in the air like that. I looked at the front and saw something strange.

"Carl?" I pointed up. "Someone's left the mooring line hatch open."

Carl came swimming up in an easy breaststroke. He turned onto his back to look. "You don't need to close it. There's a mechanism that shuts the hatch when the mooring line is pulled in all the way."

"Maybe it's broken. Didn't those Jäger come in through there? I hate it when people don't wipe their feet."

"They did. Bloody rude not to tell us they broke something."

There were some noises carried over the water, and we saw Felicia climbing down the rope ladder wearing my swimsuit, which fit her perfectly. She stuck her toe in the water, held her nose, and let go of the ladder. Fatin paddled over to her, and we could see Felicia politely looking away, commenting on how lovely the water was. We swam over.

"Aren't you glad you have joined us now?" Carl swam up behind Fatin for much needed embraces.

The water was clear enough to see where his hands went, and Felicia turned round to me, pointed North. "Spain is that way, isn't it?"

"About," I said. I lay back in the water. Through Lady I's cargo hatch, I could see Andrew walk to the ladder carrying a machine part. "I feel a bit guilty. Andrew's working hard and we're just playing in the water."

Felicia smiled. "There is nothing on this Earth that could make him happier than he is now. He has his tools, a broken machine, and all the time he needs to fix it."

Behind Felicia's back, Carl and Fatin were speaking in her African language, and though I couldn't understand it, the tone was clear. Felicia was firmly determined not to notice any of the goings-on behind her. I took pity on her and swam away, with her following me, leaving the somewhat married couple to their marital arts. Felicia swam in a school-like breaststroke, keeping her head above water at all times. The safety buoy drifted by, and she took it, floating on it. She closed her eyes, sighed.

"This is lovely. Thank you for twisting my arm."

"Keep the suit," I said. "It looks good on you."

 
We turned round to see Fatin climbing the rope ladder, with Carl close behind her. A few moments later, I heard the whooshing noise of Lady I's fires being ignited with sprays of flammable oil.

"I think Andrew's done," I said.

"Time to get back on board," said Felicia.

A few minutes later, we climbed up the ladder, Felicia first. Topside, Carl gave her an arm and easily lifted her into the cargo bay. He held out his hand to me. Times were when I would have slapped it away and done a handstand on the edge, but those times were behind me, and I didn't know whether they would ever be ahead of me again. I took his hand, and he pulled me up as if I weighed nothing.

"Thank you." I looked into his eyes, and found there only warmth.

"You're welcome," he said.

My big brother can be an oaf sometimes, but all things considered, I'm glad I have him.

 

---

 
Lady I was designed to be crewed by two or three people, and flown by a single person at the helm. She needed no stokers, as a conveyor belt dropped coal in her furnace. All the engine controls ran through Bowden cables to the bridge, and all the mechanisms were self-supporting. The French who designed and built her liked their comfort. Or maybe they wanted to save as much room as possible for fighting personnel. Still, all these mechanical conveniences have the disadvantage that they can break. So Carl grabbed a toolbox, and we climbed to the in-envelope deck to go and fix the mooring cable hatch. The mooring cable winch was, unsurprisingly, at the front with a long thin shaft running back to a crank on the bridge, and a Bowden cable to apply the brake. A knot was near the end of the mooring cable, and when the cable was fully wound up, it would pull the hatch shut behind it.

Lady I's envelopes were massive bags of thick canvas, made gas tight with a coating of gutta percha. We had to crawl through a small corridor from the in-envelope deck to the very front of the ship. The braided-steel mooring cable was on a drum above the hatch, which was open. It was easy to see why this was. The metal rod for pulling it shut was dangling free. We would have to pull the hatch closed and re-attach the rod.

Carl gripped the mooring cable with one hand, and leaned out over the water far below.

"Can't reach!"

"Let me try," I said, without thinking.

Carl gave me a look. "I think it's better if I do the acrobatics this time. I'll get out the bosun's chair and get to the hatch from the outside, attach a rope, and then we can pull the hatch shut to fix it."

We crawled back through the narrow corridor, and found a bosun's chair. In its simplest form, a bosun's chair is a rope attached to a plank for sitting on to work on a ship's hull, but because we would be working high above the ground, ours were more like climbing harnesses, with straps going round the thighs and back for extra safety. Which would turn out to be a very good thing.

 
We climbed the ladder to the top observation deck, and Carl tied the rope to one of the metal eyes meant for strapping equipment to the deck. I wrapped the rope round a windlass once used to hoist equipment onto the top deck. Carl pulled on the harness, attached the rope with a carabiner and walked out onto the envelope along the narrow walking board as I played out the rope. When he came to the very front, he put the rope through the eyelet, waved at me and stepped over the edge. I slowly let out the rope a few yards, held it.

"Down!"

I let out a few more feet of rope.

"More!"

"How much more?" I shouted.

Without any warning, I felt a hard blow to my back, just below my elbow. I tried to cry out, but couldn't. A woman's voice was in my ear.

"All the way."

She kicked me hard in the stomach, and I rolled over gasping for breath. The wheel of the windlass started turning fast, and I could hear Carl crying out as the rope hit the end stop. As quickly as I could, I rolled over twice, dragged myself to my feet. On the deck with me was Sabine Moreau. She stood in a boxer's stance, fists up, hip forward. Her face glowed with sadistic glee.

"Bonjour salope," she said.

She stepped forward, raised her leg, and kicked with her heel down towards my knee. I sprang back. She stepped forward, and kicked at my knee with the other heel.

"How are your legs?" She slowly advanced on me as I retreated. "I'm going to break your legs."

She raised her leg in a feint, then unexpectedly kicked high towards my head, and I could only barely dodge it. I made a grab for her thigh, but she moved away.

"You are going to die with your legs broken." She kicked for my midsection, and her toes glanced my stomach.

I retreated, and my foot was on the edge of the deck. Sabine Moreau came towards me, smiling. I concentrated on her eyes, waiting for some sign of what she was going to do. If I could get her on the ground, I had a chance.

"You have nowhere left to run cherie. Why don't you give up? I promise I will kill you quickly." She laughed. "Oh what am I saying? I am going to break you into a hundred little pieces, starting with those pathetic legs of yours. Your brother can listen to you screaming."

She crouched down, ready to spring. I leapt forward, took hold of her leg as it came up, and threw her. We rolled and she landed on top of me. My legs were wrapped round her middle and I had a solid grip on her wrists. In Jiu-Jitsu, it is not always a disadvantage to be on the bottom. I squeezed my thighs round her as hard as I could, to keep her from breathing till she would pass out. She furiously tried to wrench her arms free, which was fine with me. Use up your air, 'cherie'. She rose up as far as she could, and before I realised what she was doing, slammed her forehead down into my face. My vision turned into nothing but a rain of red. She managed to free up one arm and punched me in the face over and over again till my legs slipped and she could get up. She retreated, and stood there breathing hard while I tried to get to my feet.

I had just managed to raise myself on one knee, when she was back, and kicked me in the chest. I rolled onto my back and she brought her heel down on my stomach. She took a few steps back, while I struggled to breathe.

"Please stand up. It is easier to break your thighbone that way."

I looked at her, and knew she had me. All she had to do was to keep me from recovering, from getting up, from catching my breath. She could finish me off any time she liked. My only hope was to provide her with entertainment until help came. But who would come? Brenda was asleep. Carl was hanging from a safety line.

As if I'd put the thought into her head, she stepped over to the windlass, and reached for the knot that held Carl.

"No!" I struggled to my feet, staggered towards her.

Sabine Moreau laughed, raised her leg to break my thighbone. I dropped my hands, and she hit me with a left-right combination punch in the stomach and the head. I fell to the deck, and my vision blurred. The next moment, I felt a savage kick to my lower back. I rolled onto my stomach and then her weight was on top of me. With one hand, she grabbed my hair. The other she put over my face, holding my nose and mouth closed so I couldn't breathe. I tried shaking my head, but couldn't break her hold. I tried to move my arms, reach back, push myself up, but all my strength had left me. I felt her breath on my cheek.

"When you are dead, I'll drop your body over the side for your brother to see. Then, I'll drop him into the sea as well. Next, I'll kill that little traitor in her bed, and then..." she slammed my head into the deck, let go of my nose for a moment so I could get a half lung full of air. "Don't die while I am talking to you. With you out of the way, I can take out the rest of you whenever I want. Riley first, I think. He's dangerous. Then the idiot savant and his school mistress. Then that old couple. Your father too. I think I'll save the Negro girl for last, so she can sail the ship to Cairo. She will do anything for me as long as I have my fingers on that half-caste's throat. It'll be such fun to snap its neck in front of its mother. And then-"

Through the ringing in my ears, I couldn't hear what happened, but I felt Sabine's grip fall away, and then the only thing I could do was to take deep, deep gulps of life-giving air. I closed my eyes for a few monents, then looked up. Standing over me with a piece of pipe in his hand, the bosun's chair still attached to him in an almost comical way, stood Carl. He knelt next to me, put his hand on my shoulder.

"Are you allright?"

Tears sprang to my eyes, and I laughed and sobbed at the same time.

"Yes." I tried to get up, failed. Carl pulled me up into his arms. I was aching all over, but felt nothing actually broken. "Just give me a minute."

I sat up and looked at Sabine Moreau's still body, the small trickle of blood dripping onto the deck from her head. Carl kneeled next to her, put his finger on her neck.

"She's alive."

I slowly got to my feet, feeling bruised ribs from my head to my toes. "Her head is still on. You're losing your touch."

Carl smiled at me. "I am refining it. I think we may want her alive."

"Why?" I touched my forehead, looked at the blood on my fingers. "Just drop her over the side."

"Let's get you down below." Carl took hold of Sabine's wrist and heaved her onto his back. "I'll go find Father."

I watched Carl maneuver down the ladder with Sabine on his shoulders. I followed him, slowly.

"I need to practice with Brenda more," I said, too quietly for him to hear. "You are too soft."

Carl Tennant: Becoming the enemy

Puppet on a string - In our clutches - Shown the ropes - Who we are - In Second Class - Onward journey

 

---

 

FOUL PLAY IN THE HOMOEOPATHY EXAMS?

 

Rina Prescott reporting

 

This year has seen a marked drop in the average grades of the Homoeopathy exams, with three quarters of the students scoring less than last year's results. Rumour has it that many of the Homoeopathy students had not prepared for a significant number of the subjects, thinking no questions would be asked on them. Mr. Dirk McDuff has, as he promised, now made public his prediction for this year's exams, and as expected, they were nothing like the exams set. This firmly puts to rest any claims that Mr. McDuff has any prognostic powers where exams are concerned, as he himself has always said. In the hypothetical case that Mr. McDuff would have shown his predictions to anyone, perhaps even for a moderate amount of money, those who might have purchased it would have no recourse, because they got what they paid for: an inaccurate prediction. It is to be hoped that nobody deluded themselves in that way.

 

On another note, a large bunch of lilies was delivered to the Clarion office, bearing a card that said only 'Thank you' and nothing else. The flowers are lovely, and will brighten up the Clarion office beautifully. Whoever you may be, thank you for the flowers, and we hope to continue whatever it was that made you send them to us.

 
Deluded themselves? Homoeopathy students? Surely not?! -- LD Serves them right if they did. Glad we exposed McDuff as a fraud. Think that's what the flowers are for? --RP I thought you hated lilies? -- LD I'm being nice. They're probably for you. Any idea who it is? -- RP Not the slightest. We must find out. Are we not hornet-like in our pursuit of facts? -- LD The game, as they say, is twelve inches! -- RP

 

---

 
It was that day that I finally fully realised what the word 'enemy' meant. Even in a lifetime of expeditions in dangerous places where people would think nothing of murdering us for our equipment and weapons, it never came to this. Enemies were shots fired from cover, people running at us screaming. People so fundamentally different from ourselves that we hardly noticed they were people at all. Bandits. Desperados. Assassins. Savages. Cannibals. All that changed that day.

The first hint that something was amiss was me racing down in my bosun's chair, and shouts from above. I clutched the rope, thinking I would fall all the way down to a watery grave. Instead, I was brought to an abrupt standstill with the straps painfully reminding me that I was in fact male. Never mind. They had just saved my life. I was dangling about fifteen, twenty feet below Lady I's bows, out of sight of the bridge. I tried to pull myself up, but the rope was too thin and I couldn't get a proper grip on it. My eye fell on the open mooring cable hatch. Maybe, just maybe, I could reach that. By waving my arms in circles, I pointed myself at the hatch. I kicked my legs out as if on a swing in the garden. With each swing, I came closer to the hatch till I could grab the edge and pull myself in with a desperate heave. I lay still for half a moment. Then the urgency of the situation came back to me. I leapt to my feet, crawled through the corridor to the in-envelope deck. An end of metal pipe was left lying on the bench. I grabbed it and climbed up the ladder to the top deck. Alex was lying on her stomach on the floor, and someone was on top of her, holding her head as though to break her neck. I ran towards her, raised my pipe, and struck out. Alexandra's assailant rolled off her without a sound, and Alex gasped for breath, her face red, her lips purple from lack of air. I could see blood dripping down her face. I held her in my arms, brushed away her hair, looked into her eyes.

"Are you allright?"

"Yes."

It took a few moments before she could sit up. I turned to her assailant, and found that it was none other than Slate's henchman, Sabine Moreau. I turned her onto her back, felt her pulse.

"She's alive."

 
I lifted Miss Moreau onto my shoulders and carried her down the ladders to the cargo hold. For safety's sake, I tied her arms behind her back and left her on the hatch. Alex came down the stairs.

"I'll go clean up a bit and fetch Father."

I nodded, searched Miss Moreau for weapons. She had a fold-out knife in a pocket and a small caliber pistol in a holster on her back. I took a slow breath, realising that she could simply have shot Alex, but had chosen not to, preferring to beat her to death with her bare hands. I looked at her, a slightly built woman about our own age, with a lightly tanned skin, smooth dark hair, a pretty face. And rotten to the core. Cruel. Sadistic even. I pulled up a crate, sat down on it, her gun between my hands.

"Carl?" I looked up to see Father walking down the stairs from the bridge. "What do we have here?"

"Miss Sabine Moreau. An associate of Slate's. She tried to kill Alexandra. I was almost too late. She's unconscious, not dead."

"Hmm." Father rubbed his chin. "Keep a close watch on her, and tell me when she wakes up."

"Yes Father."

He went back to the bridge and I went back to staring at Miss Moreau. The door opened again and this time Riley came in. He took one look at Miss Moreau and stepped over to her with a grin.

"Don't get too close," I said. "She's dangerous."

"My kind of woman," said Riley. He kneeled by Miss Moreau, poking a finger into her stomach. "How long's she been out?"

"Ten minutes or so."

Riley turned Miss Moreau's face up, opened one of her eyes. "Shouldn't be long then. Good." He looked back at me. "I'll take over from here."

"Take over what?"

Riley sneered. "The care and feeding of our new friend, of course. Do you know how to treat a thoroughbred French poodle like her? How much garlic to feed her? What the hell do you think?"

"Are you thinking of..." I looked at Miss Moreau.

"Oh I won't hurt a hair on her pretty little head. As long as she tells me everything I want to know." He got back to his feet. "Which I'm really hoping she won't. More fun that way."

Alex walked in, a plaster on her forehead, chin out. I moved close to her.

"Riley," I whispered.

"What about him?"

"He's going to... question her."

"Oh."

I'd expected a bit more of a reaction, to be honest.

"He might... hurt her."

Alex gave me a rather icy look. "Before you got to her, she was explaining to me how she was going to enjoy breaking Raage's neck in front of Fatin after killing me and you and everybody else. Her health and comfort are not my greatest concern." She looked at Sabine, lying still on her side. "She is a murderer."

A few moments later, Miss Moreau moved her legs, pulled at her bonds. Riley walked up to her and pulled her up.

"Wake up, Sweetheart. Daddy wants to have a little talk with you."

Miss Moreau looked at him, said nothing. Riley reached out, ran his fingers through her hair, then grabbed a handful and turned her face up.

"Start talking. Make me happy."

Miss Moreau scowled. "I don't want you to be happy. I want you to be dead."

"Everybody wants something. One's reach must always exceed one's grasp, or what's Heaven for?" Riley pulled Miss Moreau's head back. "Let's start with something simple. Where's Slate?"

"I'd rather die than betray him."

Alex looked up from studying her fingernails. "You're sitting on the bomb bay doors. If you're really lucky, you can have both."

"Die, salope."

Alex smirked at her. "Missed your chance."

"There will be more."

"You're talking to me, Sweetheart." Riley shook her. "Where's Slate?"

"Va t'faire foutre!" She took a breath to spit in his face, but before she could, Riley turned her head away.

"Such a filthy habit."

He looked up, pulled the hoist over on its rails, and lowered the hook. He hooked her wrists onto the hoist, and raised it with the chain until Miss Moreau was standing up, arms outstretched behind her, bent forward. He grabbed her chin, pulled her face up.

"Where is Slate. Last chance Sabine." He grinned at her in a sickening way. "Please don't tell me. Please give me an excuse." He pulled at the chain. The hook didn't rise, but lowered instead, allowing Miss Moreau to lower her arms and stand up straight.

"Go to hell."

"Good girl."

Riley stepped over to the lever and pulled it. The cargo hatch opened and Miss Moreau fell down only to be pulled sharply up by her wrists. In an instant, her composure was shattered. She screamed, kicked out her legs desperately, forced to look down at the water thousands of feet below her. Riley kneeled by the hatch and shouted at her.

"Where is Slate? Where is the base?"

Miss Moreau only screamed. I am convinced that she didn't even hear him, deep inside her coccoon of agony. I stepped forward, put my hand on Riley's shoulder.

"Get her up."

Riley snarled at me, slapped my arm away. "Shut your goddamn pie hole." He struck the cable with his cane. "Where is Slate! Where is the base! Tell me now or the next round there's gonna be weights on your feet!"

Miss Moreau screamed. "Cap de bon espoire! Cap de bon espoire!"

 
The door to the bridge slammed open. I looked up and saw Father walking down the stairs, an expression like thunder on his face. "Yes. Thank you, Itzel. Riley? Step away. Carl, get her inside."

"Oh for Christ's sake!" Riley pointed his cane at Father. "This little whore was planning to kill you, me, everyone on board. She's just told us Slate is somewhere off the South Cape. Would you have got that out of her? I'm here to do a goddamn job, and I ain't planning to let you keep me from doing it."

At that moment, Miss Lee came walking in, bacon sandwich in hand, on her way to the bridge. I could see her eyes widen, moving from Riley to me, to Miss Moreau, to Father, back to Riley. She let go of her sandwich, leapt down the stairs, and before anyone could move or say a thing her hand cut down like a knife between Riley's neck and shoulder. Riley fell to the deck. Brenda pulled the chain, and as Miss Moreau rose above the floor, I closed the hatch, stepped forward, and lifted her onto my shoulder and off the hook. I gently laid her down. Small painful noises came from her.

"Alexandra?" said Father. "Please fetch the medical kit."

"Which one?"

"The one for torture victims." Father sneered. "Any time you're ready."

"Aye-aye Captain." Alex turned round, trotted up the stairs to the living quarters.

Brenda stood up straight, turned to Father, with her eyes burning.

"Just what kind of outfit are you running here, Skipper? I joined up here because you lot don't do this sort of rot!"

"An excellent question, Miss Lee." Father bent over Riley, who was picking himself up from the floor. "What made you think you could perform strappado on our captive without my express orders?"

"I don't work for you, Tennant. I work-"

Father waved his hand in front of Riley's face. "I don't care who you are working for. Let me be absolutely clear. There will be no torture on board my airship. If you find yourself unable to comply with that simple and obvious rule..." Father pointed at the bomb hatch. "You are free to leave."

"You're too goddamn soft for this." Riley turned his eyes to Miss Moreau, back to Father. "You need to squeeze that bitch for all the information she's got." He bent closer to father with a scowl on his face. "And then, one of you needs to put a bullet in her head. She's too dangerous to leave running around, and too dangerous to keep with you. You know that, and I am done volunteering."

"Get out of my face, Riley. I'm sure our Miss Lee will be happy to show you to your cabin if you can't find it."

Riley turned round and left. Father walked up, put a hand on Brenda's shoulder, then bent over Miss Moreau.

"I am truly sorry, Miss. This will not be repeated, you have my word."

Alex arrived with the medical kit. I untied Miss Moreau's arms. I felt her shoulders. They were not dislocated, but the muscles would be stretched, perhaps even torn by her own weight. A method of torture used since the Spanish Inquisition. She didn't make a sound, except for small whimpers. Alexandra filled a cup with water, added drops of morphia from the bottle. She kneeled beside Miss Moreau and put the cup to her lips. She drank without complaint and her eyes started to close.

"I held out much longer than you did," said Alex.

 
We all looked down on our fallen enemy. I looked at Father.

"What do we do with her?"

"Yes Itzel, you can tell Iris that we will not harm her. Please..." Father looked at me. "I think it's best if we put her in the port cargo bay. Chain her to the wall so she doesn't wander off, get her something to sleep on, some food and water if she needs it."

I gave a little nod and picked up Miss Moreau. Brenda opened the door for me, and I carried her into the hold. We put her down on the floor by the bulkhead and attached a chain to her ankle. She never woke up. I looked at Brenda.

"Thank you."

She raised an eyebrow. "What for?"

"Dealing with Riley."

"Anything keepin' you from doing that yourself?"

"Um," I said.

"Grow a goddamn spine, Tennant." Brenda got up, brushed her knees. "I'll relieve you at six."

I watched her walk out of the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the drugged young woman who had wanted to kill us all. Was I really too gentle? I'd hit her hard, without asking whether she'd get up again. Was Riley right, and were we all too soft? Did she deserve to have her muscles torn, her arms pulled out of their sockets? Did the world belong to the merciless? Blessed are the meek, or so it is written. For they shall inherit the Earth. But who will the meek inherit it from? Will the wrathful, the cruel, the greedy, leave us with anything worth inheriting?

Miss Moreau turned over in her sleep with a painful groan, then sank again into the arms of Morpheus. I settled into my watch. After half an hour, Fatin came in with a flask of coffee, poured me a cup, smiled, kissed me, left quietly. I turned the gaslight down low, sat down, drank my coffee.

The meek had better inherit something worthwhile.

 

---

 
With Lady I's engines repaired, we steamed on to Khartoum. We all gathered in the mess hall, except Fatin who was at the helm, Andrew who was improving our mooring cable hatch in the hold, and Riley who had chosen not to join us at this time. We had given Miss Moreau a double dose of morphia, and left her sleeping on a few bags of sail cloth, securely fastened to the wall.

 
"Ladies, Gentlemen," said Father. "As you know, we have a prisoner. We are here to decide what to do with her."

"Keep her as a pet," said Brenda.

Stranger the Cat, currently in splendid repose on a seat cushion, opened one eye and flowed onto Brenda's lap.

"Oh now you want scratches? Tough luck, buddy. We're going to trade you in on a frog."

"She's going to crap all over the floor," said Alex. "Are you going to clean that all up?"

Father knocked on the table. "We cannot keep her with us indefinitely. Our cargo hold is not a prison cell."

"It's pretty comfy," said Alex. "Soft pillows to sleep on and all the morphia you want."

Brenda chuckled. "So not a prison cell then. More like second class."

"Ladies?" Father frowned at them. "We are discussing the possibility of killing someone. Could we stop the comedy please?"

Felicia stared. "Can't we just hand her over to the authorities in Khartoum?"

Wadcroft shook his head. "There's a few problems with that. She might fall into the hands of the wrong people, who would treat her even worse than Riley would. Or alternatively, she might accuse us of mistreating her because, not to put too fine a point on it, we did. Or she might find a way of escaping. Prometheus have agents everywhere."

"Then why don't we just leave her somewhere far away?" Felicia looked at her hands. "When she gets back to civilisation, we'll be long gone."

"She knows too much for that," said Wadcroft. "About who is on board. About this craft. Where we are going. We would be ill-advised to let that knowledge get into the hands of Prometheus."

"She is an enemy." Alex' face was hard as stone. "She nearly killed me. I don't want her to try again."

"Do we have anyone we can trust not to let her go, but not mistreat her?"

"Secret Service," said Wadcroft. "We'll meet young Wainwright in Khartoum. Maybe he has a solution. Her Majesty's Secret Service have abolished the more harsh ways of extracting information long ago. Maybe Dr. Pike can put us in contact with the right people."

"And if not?" said Brenda.

"As much as I hate to say it," said Father. "Riley is right about one thing. We cannot allow her to rejoin Prometheus."

"Hm," said Margaret. "So we keep her tied up in Second Class forever? What if we pull into port? Do we tell the authorities that she's our mad cousin Annie?"

Brenda looked round the table. "I'm gonna have to be the one to say it, aren't I?"

Nobody said anything.

Brenda put her elbows on the table. "If we can't drop her somewhere safe, we have to kill her."

"Barbaric," said Felicia. "She is no threat to us now."

Brenda gave her a look. "Do you want to take the next turn guarding her?"

Felicia looked away. "I know she is dangerous. Evil. But... An execution? A hanging? A firing squad?"

Brenda raised her hands. "She's off to play with the fairies right now. We drop her down the hatch, she'll be happy right till she hits the deck. Much better than what she wanted to do with us. She wouldn't suffer."

"I don't want to be a part of this," said Felicia.

Brenda opened her mouth to say something, but Father put a hand on her arm. "None of us do. Let's hope that once we reach Khartoum, we can dispose of her in a way agreeable to all concerned."

Felicia stood up. "I have to go and see if Andrew is all right."

She walked out of the door, down the stairs, her steps crisp and firm, her conscience intact.

"I don't think Mr. Wainwright can help us here. If we were in Ipswich or London, maybe. But not here. We're far away from home." I sighed. "This might have been easier if I'd hit her a bit harder."

"You're too nice, Tennant." Brenda grinned. "Just ask Hester Klemm."

I sneered. Hester Klemm was Magister Nicholas Slate's lieutenant in charge of the paramilitary organisation named Klemm's Jäger that she inherited from her father Gustav Klemm. She was the one who tortured Alexandra with the device that destroyed her knees. In a fit of rage, I had rushed her and struck her head off with my kukri. Given what was happening at the time, I had never felt any remorse. I had acted without thinking, without hesitating. I could easily do the same to Miss Moreau. I had the strength and skill. What I lacked was the needed rage. A vision came to me of Miss Moreau kneeling by the bomb hatch, the blade in my hand, a touch of her shoulder and an assurance that this would not hurt. I shook my head. Why, though? From all we knew, Sabine Moreau was every bit as cruel and depraved as Hester Klemm. Both deserved death in equal measure. Why then, did my animal instincts and my rational thoughts disagree so much?

Brenda looked at Father. "Want me to do it, Captain? Just give the order."

I studied her face carefuly. Her eyes were steady, and a slightly sardonic gleam was in them. In our little tribe, Brenda was the only one with formal training in killing people. I had no doubt that she meant every word she said. Still, it was clear that this would answer more questions than the obvious, and that the wrong answer would mean losing a friend and a crewmember.

Father laughed grimly. "And then it won't be your fault because I am ordering you, and it won't be my fault because I'm not the one pulling the trigger." Father shook his head. "No. This is my ship. If it becomes necessary to permanently dispose of our prisoner, then I will do it."

Since I met her in the Eagle's Nest in Sudan, I'd seen Brenda laugh, grin, joke. This was the first genuine smile I saw on her face. She got up, brass-checked her pistol.

"She's gonna wake up in a few. I'll take the next turn."

We all watched her walk out of the door. I looked at the table for a few moments, then got up myself.

"I'll relieve Fatin at the helm."

 

---

 
I walked onto the bridge to see Fatin standing by the wheel, feeling the movement of our home in the sky through her bare feet, the drone of the engines, the gentle motions Lady I made as the wind blew her, one with the clouds and the currents of the air around her. Next to her, in his pram securely fastened to the railing, Raage lay, making tiny contented noises and playing with his rattle made of coloured beads on a string. I stepped up behind her, put my arm round her waist. Her dark eyes, filled with love, turned to me for a few moments, then back to the world outside.

"What have they said?"

"We have a lioness in our tent. If there is no way that we can keep her away from us, we may have to kill her."

For a moment, Fatin said nothing. She turned the wheel half a spoke to port, and only then could I hear the gust of wind blowing against the windows. I watched the compass, and it didn't move even a fraction.

"There are tribes who keep dogs. They become part of the tribe. They hunt with the hunters. They are on guard when the tribe sleeps. They eat with the children." She looked at me. "But nobody keeps lions."

"We keep dangerous people."

"You are dangerous," said Fatin. "If you were not dangerous, then I would now be a wife of the M'bari, and Raage would be dead."

"I'm not." I leaned against the railing to the lower part of the bridge. I touched Raage's hair. "Even knowing what Sabine Moreau wanted to do to you, to him. I could not... do it." I looked into Fatin's eyes. "If I saw her try to hurt you, then I would tear her to pieces. But to look at her, maybe tied up, helpless. I could not strike."

"Is Captain Philip asking you to?"

I shook my head. "Father has taken that upon himself. If he needs to."

"And then, Iris and Itzel will not be our friends anymore." Fatin closed her eyes for a few moments. She turned the wheel reacting to goodness only knows what. "We had a camp along the White Nile. It was a good camp, and a happy place. But dark things happened there, and we do not go there anymore. The ghosts, the memories, they keep us away." Fatin turned to me. "It is not the dead we fear. Even though what we did, we had to do, the dark parts of our own spirits keep us away. They tell us what we can be if we allow it."

I bent over Raage, picked him up out of his pram, held him close so I could look into his eyes, stroked his hair. Raage screwed up his face, took a deep breath, and started wailing. It was the 'empty' howl, not the 'full' one.

Fatin smiled. "Take the wheel."

 
I took the wheel, watched my beautiful wife sit down in the Captain's chair, unbutton herself. Raage became quiet. I checked all the gauges, envelope pressure, steam pressure, engine speed, heading... Lady I was happy. Listening to the propellers, I steered her towards Khartoum, and the things that awaited us.

 

Philip Tennant: Opening the door

I believe this is your stop - The caged lioness - Old acquaintances - My job here is done - Always room for one more - Going South

 

---

 

May I?

 

By Jocelyn Vale

 

May I cut
Your silhouette, Sir?
May I strike
An irreverent pose?
May I burn
Like the sun in the heavens, Ma'am?
May I smack
My lips in delight?
May I pierce
The darkness with a bright flame?
May I crush
The virgin snow under my feet?
May I shoot
Those who will not let me?

 
I like this! Bit... dark, though. -- RP Jocelyn waving her 'Crazy Girl' flag. Still, it has some appeal. Run it on page three. -- LD

 

---

 
The journey to Khartoum passed without further adventures, no doubt due to the fact that our saboteur was now languishing in Second Class, guarded by Alexandra, Brenda and Carl in turn. She was quiet, subdued, and most of the time asleep in a morphia-induced stupor. We gave her the same food we had, enough water to drink, allowed her the use of the heads, and tried not to mention that there was a good chance we would have to shoot her through the head. Margaret regularly visited Miss Moreau to put fresh cold compresses on her shoulders, and give her her medicine.

As we approached Khartoum, we transferred Miss Moreau to the in-envelope deck, landed at the airport, and performed the formalities. The official showed no interest in searching our Lady for white women in chains, which was fortunate.

Guests always bring joy, if not when they arrive, then when they leave. Mr. James T. Riley firmly belonged in the latter category. I suggested to him that his adventures were better continued on board some other vessel, and he told me I would regret my choice. Life is full of such disappointments, and I would simply have to bear it. He picked up his bag and walked down the gangplank in the direction of the Airport office. We later found that he had forgotten his cherished bottle of Whisky in our drinks cabinet, much to Brenda's delight. Yanks will drink anything, Marines doubly so.

 
With Lady I securely moored, I decided to pay Miss Moreau a visit. We had adopted the policy of not bringing firearms into Second Class, so they could not be taken from the guard and used against us. Miss Moreau was too wise, or too drugged, to try anything, but better safe than sorry. I put my revolver in the cupboard on the bridge, prepared a cup of morphia for her, and went into the hold.

"Cap'n?"

Brenda threw me a military salute. Good Lord. My very own children still hadn't finished mocking me for buying a Captain's hat. Now Brenda was at it. I made a mental note to buy a few blue and white striped sailor's outfits, including hats with bobbles on, and force them to wear them.

"As you were, Sailor. How's she doing?"

"Sleeping," said Brenda. "Eat, shit, sleep. Little Raage is more trouble than she is. I think she's about to wake up. Meds wearing off."

"Would you excuse us for a moment? I'd like to talk to her alone for a while."

"Aye-aye Cap'n." Brenda opened the door, looked back at me. "If she gives you any trouble, can I be Captain after you?"

"Certainly not. You'd only turn Lady I into a pirate ship."

"And you may lay to that," said Brenda, and left.

 
Miss Moreau looked like a little bird fallen out of the nest, sleeping on her side facing the wall. We had given her some of Alexandra's clothes to wear. Her feet were bare. The swelling in her shoulders seemed to have gone down a little. With her still asleep, I made sure that the chain was still securely fastened round her ankle, the other end round a metal strut. Without a shackle key, she was going nowhere.

"She looks well cared for." I looked up to see Itzel sitting on a crate containing bags of beans, dangling her legs, leaning back on her hands.

"We are not savages," I answered.

"Iris will be pleased," said Itzel.

"Where is she?"

Itzel shrugged. "She didn't want to be here."

"And why are you here?"

"I am making sure that the will of Huitzilopochtli is not defied. As I always am."

Miss Moreau turned over in her sleep, made a small noise, opened her eyes. She sat up, pressed her back into the wall, eyes wide open.

"Good morning Miss Moreau. How are you?"

She shrunk back, said nothing. I could see her breath quicken.

"Well?"

"I... I am good." She put her hand on her shoulder. "Thank you," she added.

"You will be pleased to know that Mr. Riley has left the ship. I apologise again."

She gave a trembling nod. "I... am sorry."

"What for, exactly?" I looked into her eyes. She looked away quickly.

"I had to."

"Because Mr. Slate asked?"

"He...." Miss Moreau looked at her feet. "Magister Slate... Il a ma soeur dans les mains. Si je ne fais pas tout ce qu'il dit, il va..."

"He'll do to your sister what he did to my daughter? And to Dr. Cjelli? Dr. Schröder? Dr. Dupont? All those poor people he had murdered or enslaved?"

"Please, Sir..." There were tears welling up in her eyes. "You don't know what Magister Slate is capable of. Elodie is just fourteen years old. He would have her..." she swallowed. "Raped. Beaten. Tortured in ways you cannot imagine."

"I don't need to imagine," I said.

"Pain is the gateway to the Divine," said Itzel, and smiled at me, with a mixture of sweetness and sharp spices. "Philip my love, you cannot bear to see a woman suffer. I know that, and so does she."

Miss Moreau put her hands on her shoulders. Her voice trembled. "Please. I know I deserve this. But Elodie is innocent. I have to free her. If you let me go, I'll..."

"I'm afraid that is out of the question."

She looked at me for a few shivering breaths. "What will you do with me?"

"You and she go for a walk," said Itzel. "Only you come back."

I frowned at Itzel, looked back at Miss Moreau. As if she had heard Itzel, she started to cry, quietly, utterly defeated. Tears streaming down her face, she looked up at me.

"Sir, if you must kill me, please do it quickly. I only wanted to free my sister. I only..."

"I'm sure it won't have to come to that."

Itzel laughed quietly. "I know you too well, Philip."

I stood up and turned round to leave.

"Please sir. Please..." She was on her knees, hands folded, looking up at me. "Please..."

I held out her cup of tea-and-morphia. She took it, drained it in one gulp. Her eyes started to close, and she lay down on her bed, facing the wall as before. I heard a small noise, and she looked back up at me.

"Please Sir. If you must... Don't let me wake up."

"We'll talk again later."

 
I left the cargo hold, to find Brenda and Alexandra leaning against the wall. Both looked at me, questioning.

I took a deep breath. "What complete and utter rats we are, to keep such a sweet young innocent girl chained up in the dark against her will, when all she wants is to free her beloved sister Elodie from the clutches of Magister Slate. Why would we do such a thing I ask you?"

"Well..." Alexandra counted on her fingers. "She tried to kill me, then she wanted to drop Carl into the sea, then she wanted to stab Brenda in her sleep, then Riley because there's some good in anyone, then Felicia, Andrew, Wadcroft, Margaret, and you. And then torture Raage to get Fatin to fly the airship and kill them both as soon as she'd outlived her usefulness, and then steal our airship and return to Slate for tea and biscuits."

"Ah yes." I gave a little nod. "That would be it, thank you for reminding me."

"She was getting all chummy with me," said Brenda. "Fellow soldiers of opposin' sides, how'd you like the food in the Eagle's Nest, sorry about trying to kill you, nothing personal, just doing my duty. Christ almighty."

Alexandra rolled her eyes. "Told me how much her arms were hurting and how they forced her to join Prometheus, surely I'd understand, being a torture victim myself." Alexandra's eyes burnt with anger. "I'm sure the little tart read all of Hester Klemm's reports. Sooner we get rid of her, the better. We'll be over a nice warm bit of desert soon. Let's open the door and set her free."

"Your suggestion is noted," I said. I could forgive Alexandra her anger, but I cherish the difference between ourselves and people like Slate, Klemm, and Moreau.

"Hey Alexandra?" Brenda chuckled. "What do you think she tried with Carl?"

"Offer him her flesh," said Alexandra without a moment's thought. "Last time I relieved him, she had two buttons open. Little whore."

"Fat chance," said Brenda. "There's a saying 'Once you go Black, you never go back.' Of course it's the Blacks saying that mostly, but still if I was him, I know who I'd pick."

"If he falls asleep next to Fatin, chances are he'll wake up in the morning."

"He was pretty eager to find her after his last shift. Don't think she needs to worry."

"I think," I said, to bring the subject back from my son's uxorial preferences, "we can conclude that Miss Moreau has not given up her hopes of escape."

"We ain't killed her yet," said Brenda.

 

---

 
Khartoum Airport was on a rocky piece of desert at the edge of town. I had walked away far enough from Lady I to have a pipe without burning us all. I filled up, then noticed Dr. Wadcroft standing next to me, a fellow practitioner of the art of pipe-weed. We stood silently for a while, wisps of smoke gently drifting on the wind.

"Do we know where exactly young Wainwright is?"

I shook my head.

"Hm." Wadcroft blew out a long wisp of smoke. "I don't suppose we could ask Mr. Moghadam?"

"That may not be wise. If I send Alexandra, they may keep her. Just to help them with their inquiries into a break-in last year."

"We could have sent Riley if we hadn't booted him off the ship."

"Decide in haste, repent at leisure." I blew out a smoke ring. "I am not repenting very hard, though."

"I quite understand why."

I said nothing for a while. People like Riley, Slate, Hester Klemm, and also Miss Sabine Moreau, have somehow lost a piece of their humanity. The piece that sees people suffering and is distressed. The principle of don't do unto others what you don't want done unto you. And once you lose it, it is hard to gain it back. Of all the things I saw as I walked into the hold, the sight that struck me hardest was Alexandra's face, impassive and still. Was she hiding her emotions, or didn't she have any? I was determined to find out.

As we stood there, quietly smoking our pipes, there was movement at the end of the field. A small boy dressed in a blue bournous came trotting towards us. He stood in front of us, dark eyes looking up.

"Tennant?"

I gave him a little smile. "I am Captain Philip Tennant. Salam Aleikum."

"Wo alukom al salam," said the boy.

With a flourish, he offered me a scrap of paper. As I looked at it, he turned round and sprinted off at a speed neither I, nor even Wadcroft with his two healthy legs, could match. I looked at the paper. On it were three words, and a symbol of a cross and a moon: Ahmad Suleiman Masjid.

 

---

 
"Do you remember the last time we got a message from a young boy like that?" Carl said. "It turned out to be from Slate and we looked like idiots."

"Nice wine though," said Brenda.

"This is a mosque," said Alexandra. "As far as I know, Muslims don't go in for missal wine. Or any wine for that matter. It's haram."

"Never trust a God who won't let you drink His blood," said Margaret. "Can it do any harm to go have a look there?"

"This mosque may not be in the best part of town," said Alexandra.

"You're white," said Brenda. "All parts of town are bad."

"We mustn't judge, Miss Lee," said Miss Felicia. "Just because someone looks different from you, that doesn't mean they are savages."

"I remember last time we came through here." A happy smile was on Brenda's face. "They were so friendly, wanting to show us how their rifles worked. Even giving us their ammo."

"Um..." Miss Felicia looked at Brenda with wide eyes. "Do you mean they were shooting at you?"

"Well to be fair, we were shooting at them too." She sneered. "Only we could shoot straight. You damn palefaces ain't been making lots of friends here, and I look pale enough to be taken for one. Thank you kindly."

"I thought you were American."

Brenda gave Miss Felicia a look, obviously working out what to explain first.

"My mom is," she said, finally.

"Oh? And the other half?"

"What's any of this got to do with mosques?"

Miss Felicia caught the look in Brenda's eye. There are less than congenial ways of acquiring an ancestry, and Miss Lee's friendly looks have a way of reminding people that she is choosing to be friendly.

Miss Felicia looked away. "Sorry for prying."

"I think we ought to investigate," I said. "Taking all proper precautions."

 
We found the Ahmad Suleiman Mosque on the outskirts of town. Lady I was floating at an altitude of one thousand feet. I was in my chair, Fatin was at the helm, Wadcroft was on the telescope, and Alexandra was on the for'ard gun deck, ready to deliver small quantities of lead wherever they were needed. On the ground were Carl and Brenda, who weren't known by any of the Moghadam family. Miss Felicia and Andrew were in the hold, to keep their hands and minds off the proceedings below. Margaret had volunteered to watch Miss Moreau in Second Class.

"They're at the door," said Wadcroft. "Carl is knocking. Nobody's shooting at them."

"Good," I said. "We're all friends here."

Alexandra's voice came through the speaking tube. "Father? They've gone inside. I can't see them anymore."

"There are people on camels heading for the mosque," said Wadcroft. "Not armed as far as I can see." He waited. "They've passed. They are heading into town."

"I can see movement at the door," said Alexandra. "Someone looking out. Gone back in now."

"There's someone up the minaret," said Wadcroft. "With a rifle. They are not sleeping on the job."

"Keeping young Wainwright safe," I said. "Alexandra? Do you see the man in the tower?"

"Yes Father. Not sure I can hit him from here, but I can certainly keep him away from the window if need be. Just keep our Lady steady."

Fatin laughed. "Iris and Itzel are happy like lions who have just eaten. They are enjoying the sun."

"Nice to know."

We kept watch for maybe half an hour. Wadcroft called out. "Someone's approaching in a donkey cart. They're having lunch delivered. I must say this is very civilised."

"A well fed guard is a happy guard," I said. "No seducing them with food."

"I could use a sandwich," said Alexandra through the tube.

"I'm keeping you hungry," I answered. "Keeps you sharp and alert."

"All work and no food. You are a heartless and cruel Captain. One day we'll storm the bridge with pistol and cutlass."

"Just because we don't have a keel, doesn't mean I can't have you keelhauled!"

Fatin leaned over the railing behind me. "What is 'keelhauled?' It does not sound nice."

"Um..." I scratched my head. "It's something we used to do to sailors who didn't behave. You tie a rope round their hands and then you pull them under water, under the ship and up the other side. You are right. It wasn't nice. We don't do it anymore."

"You do other things now. They are not nice either."

Iris stood behind me, arms round me, chin on my shoulder. She whispered in my ear. "She's not wrong, my love. Not nice at all."

Alexandra's voice came through the speaking tube. "People coming out. It's Brenda, Carl, and Agent Wainwright. Saying goodbye to the people inside. They are getting in the cart."

"Alexandra? See if our friend upstairs is planning any parting shots."

"Looking down but hasn't got his rifle out."

"Excellent. We will wait till they're safely on their way, then head back to port." I stood up. "I suppose I'd better see if Margaret is all right with our guest."

 
"Gin," said Margaret. She was actually playing cards with Miss Moreau, teaching her our English ways.

"Bien jouée," said Miss Moreau. She looked up at me. "Captain?"

"Are you all right there, Margaret?"

"A G and T wouldn't be amiss, Philip. Other than that, I'm fine. I'm taking Miss Sabine here for everything she's got."

"It is true." Miss Moreau turned her eyes to me. "I will die without a sou to my name."

"Can't take it with you," I said. "Margaret, Carl and Brenda will be back soon. One of them wil relieve you."

"Free me from this Gin-and-tonicless existence? Oh what bliss."

Margaret looked at me as though she was expecting something. I looked back at her. I took a deep breath. Margaret beamed at me.

"Easy on the tonic, please."

What could I do? I walked to the galley and pulled out a bottle of gin. Tonic water was in the cold box. I sliced up a lemon and added that to the tray for the prevention of scurvy. Margaret wouldn't want to drink alone, so I put out two glasses. I carried it all to Second Class, opened the door, put the tray on the crate Margaret and Miss Moreau were using as a table.

"Anything else, Ladies?"

"I'll call you when we need sandwiches." Margaret winked at me. "You're a prince, Philip. Thank you."

Behind me, I could faintly hear a woman laughing. "Philip Tennant, you are too kind."

"Better than cruel and heartless," I said.

 
I left the women to their game, and a few minutes later we reached our mooring poles. I got Andrew to attach the lines and after a while, we could see three people walking towards us. We welcomed Agent Wainwright on board like a long lost relative, and took him to the mess hall. The poor man had been living on water and pitta bread for weeks, and once he had tasted Fatin's cooking, he offered to bear her children for her. Fatin immediately dropped Raage in his lap. Raage looked up at him earnestly and told him the Secret Knowledge in Baby, which sadly Wainwright didn't understand.

We called an all-hands. Carl won the toss to guard Miss Sabine. The rest of us gathered round the table for coffee, tea, and xocolatl.

"Mr. Wainwright?" I said. "Do you have a way of dealing with our guest that doesn't mean abandoning her to a fate worse than, or as bad as, death?"

Wainwright thought a moment, then shook his head. "I'm afraid not. In England, I would leave her with the Secret Service, but officials here can be somewhat, let's say unkind."

Miss Felicia looked uncomfortable. "Why can't we just let her go?"

"Too dangerous," said Wadcroft.

"How do we know that? What do we know about her, really?"

"Well," said Margaret, putting down her teacup and leaning back. "Her English is better than she is letting on. She already knew how to play Gin Rummy, but let me explain the rules to her anyway. She let me win. She has been with Prometheus in Paris for about a year or two, and worked for herself before that, God only knows what sort of work. Her dearly beloved sister Elodie or Emily or whatever is a fabrication. She joined Prometheus of her own free will, nobody forced her. She thinks Alexandra's mind is damaged beyond repair, Carl is a well-muscled oaf, Brenda is an unsubtle brute, and you Philip will never lay a finger on her. Alan, you and I are clearly dribbling into our cocoa and she'd do us a kindness to put us out of our misery. If you ask me, she's planning to escape by manipulating Philip into taking her to a quiet place and firing a single shot in the air."

"I told you," said Itzel. She was sitting next to Miss Felicia, cup of tea in her hands, not the crockery we had on board, but the kind we used in Anctapolepl.

Iris was on the seat next to me. Her eyes gleamed in the way I never realised I remembered so well. "Maybe if you shoot her, she'll join us." She grinned at Itzel. "Can she?"

"Of course," said Itzel. "There is always more room in the Afterlife."

"We'd need a fourth to play Bridge, though. We can't play with Philip. He always overbids."

"There are many women for him to shoot. Didn't you say that keelhauling was often fatal?"

"You are both horrible women," I said.

Margaret gave me a strange look. "Anyway, she's doing her best to look like the friend we just haven't realised we have in her." Her face hardened. "She's not our friend, believe you me. She'll kill any of us with a smile on her face. We need to get rid of her one way or another. And soon."

Miss Felicia blinked. "How do you know all this?"

"I read it in the cards. Don't play Gin Rummy with a witch."

"Margaret Enderby, you are not a witch. Out with it."

"I'm a crotchety old lady. Feek and weeble of mind and body. Young Sabine thinks I'm soft in the head, so she doesn't have to be careful around me. She was following Gin rules I hadn't told her. She left some cards lying in the discard pile I knew she needed. I used the wrong name for her sister and she didn't correct me. She likes to think her facial expressions are inscrutable." Margaret chuckled. "But I scruted them all the same."

"You are right," said Miss Felicia. "You are a witch and I shan't play Gin Rummy with you."

"Not if you want to hold on to your matchsticks. One more thing. She was using a twenty-two calibre pistol, wasn't she?"

"She was," said Carl. "I confiscated it and put it in the gun locker."

"Then I'm not convinced that she is the one who shot at our engines."

"But..." Carl looked round the table. "If not her, then who was it?"

Nobody said anything for a long moment.

"Well don't look at me," said Iris. "You know full well that I hate guns."

 

---

 
"Captain?" Wainwright stopped me on the way to the bridge. "Would you like me to take a turn guarding the prisoner? It'll give you some more sleep."

"If you would, that would be most helpful. Do you have a weapon on you?"

Wainwright opened his jacket and showed me the standard service Webley revolver. "I do."

"Well, put it in the locker while you do. For security, we don't have guns in Second Class."

Wainwright looked at me for a moment, then nodded. "Very well Sir."

We walked to the bridge. "She is heavily sedated, pulled every muscle in her upper body, and she is chained to the wall. You would need pliers or a shackle key to undo it. If she needs the facilities, just fetch one from the toolbox."

"Right."

As we walked past the door, there was a noise and a dark robed figure stood on the gangplank.

"Captain Tennant?" The voice was feminine, with a slight Arabic acccent. She sounded nervous, but composed. "Please may I come on board?"

Wainwright's jaw dropped. "Mrs... um. Najilah?"

"Please, Captain. It isn't safe. May I enter?"

I gave Wainwright a look. "Do you know her?"

He took a breath. "This is Mrs. Najilah Moghadam, Sir. The wife of Ahmad Moghadam, son of Bouzid Moghadam. The governor of Khartoum... Najilah, what are you doing here?"

"Wainwright, Ahmad found out about... us."

I raised the eyebrow over my one remaining eye and said nothing. Loudly.

"It's not what you think, Sir."

"Interesting. What do I think it is?"

Mrs. Moghadam turned to me. "Please Sir. If my husband finds me, I will be stoned to death."

"Agent Wainwright, what have you done to earn her such a fate?"

He gave me a dark look. "In this country, Sir, all I have to do is look at her, or talk to her alone. Please let her in."

"Take on board, no abduct the daughter in law of the Governor? Have you taken leave of your senses? If she were found here, it would be an international incident!"

Wainwright turned to me. "If you don't, they will take her out into the desert, bury her up to her shoulders because she is a woman, then throw heavy rocks at her until she is dead. That can take from two minutes to a full day depending on how upset Mr. Moghadam is. Please, Sir."

I closed my eye a moment. I believed Agent Wainwright. And I could no more leave Mrs. Moghadam to such a fate than I could Alexandra or even Miss Moreau. It was as if I were carrying a large stack of porcelain plates, and it was out of balance. One might try to keep them all under control, but the future would unavoidably contain shards.

"Very well then. Welcome on board, Mrs. Moghadam. Please follow me."

 
I walked to the mess hall as fast as I could. Everybody was still sitting there talking. All eyes turned to me.

"Ladies, Gentlemen. This is Mrs. Moghadam, who believes she is in danger of her life. Alexandra, Brenda. Make a round outside. See if she was followed. Fatin to the helm, please. Wainwright, Mr. Parsons, to the mooring lines. Margaret? Could you please..." I pointed a hand at Mrs. Moghadam.

"Of course," said Margaret, getting up. She put an arm round Mrs. Moghadam. "Come on, dear. Let's get you settled in. What's your name? Oh Felicia? Could you make some more tea?"

I looked round at astonished faces.

"Move, people! I want to be up in ten minutes!"

 

---

 
Lady I was moving south at a speed fast enough to get us away quickly, yet not so fast that it looked like running. I was in the captain's chair, pipe unlit in my mouth. Behind me, Fatin was at the wheel, singing softly to her friends Itzel and Iris. It was getting dark and the setting sun was painting the sky in glorious reds and purples. Margaret came in, poured herself a cup of tea from the Bridge Teapot, sat down in one of the observation chairs.

"How is she?"

"Asleep," said Margaret. "She was exhausted, poor thing. Felicia gave her the lower bunk."

"So now I have two women on board I didn't bargain for."

"She seems nicer than the other one. At least she is not trying to murder us all."

"But people would murder her if they found her here. And for what?"

Margaret looked at me, without really seeing me. "People here are a bit proprietary about their womenfolk, aren't they?"

"They are. These people frighten me."

"Kal killed people with his guns to get us back from the M'bari tribe." I looked round at Fatin. "That is why Elder Hanad made him leave. He was too much for my tribe. Kal is frighten when he is angry."

"Frightening." These days, we didn't often have to correct Fatin on a word, but she seemed lost in African memories.

"Frightening. Will Najilah's man come and kill us for taking her?"

"If he knew, he would, I'm sure." I turned my chair towards Fatin. "If you had left voluntarily... because you wanted to. Would Carl still have come for you?"

Fatin stared outside for a few moments. "He would be sad, not angry."

"That's because Carl is with you," said Margaret. "He does not have you, like a man may have a spear." She looked at me. "Young Najilah is property. And we have stolen her. Her opinion doesn't matter."

A soft woman's voice was in my ear. "I just want you to know my dear, my husband, my one and only love, I did possess you. Body and soul. And whether you left, or were taken from me, I would have come for you."

I looked into Iris' eyes. "And I would have come for you."

With her engines purring contentedly, Lady I sailed on over the African forests, to where our next adventures lay.

Agent Wainwright: Female company

Speaking without sound - Full steam ahead - Sabine Moreau - Najilah Moghadam - Fatin Tennant - Keeping occupied - The fate of princesses - Taste of freedom - The company of women

 

---

 

EAT WHAT IS ON YOUR PLATE

 

Linda Davenport reporting

 

The wars of nutriton have taken a new turn. Since Mr. Atkins' fish and chips carriage is not on University premises, and he is fully licensed as a restaurateur, he is perfectly within his rights to ply his trade along Sproughton Road, where he caters not only to us students, but also to hungry steel workers and industrial workers. What can be done, however, is to forbid us from leaving University grounds during lunch hours. Which is exactly what has happened now. Students must remain inside from eleven thirty till twelve thirty, when lessons recommence.

 

This lunchtime curfew has caused unrest among the student body, who wish to satisfy their cravings for the deep-fried foods that Chef Oliver has sworn to eliminate from our diet. With the noble Turkey now extinct from our plates, to be replaced by such foreign products as vegetable kebabs, fried rice, and chickpeas, revolt is brewing. Some of our students, we can now report, have resorted to buying their greasy meals beforehand and eating them cold, which is truly disgusting. Surely, vegetarianism should be a personal choice, not enforced by draconian measures such as this?

 

More on this story, as it develops.

 

---

 
There are many people who would be excited to work magical apparatus allowing one's thoughts to be transmitted without delay over vast distances. But Professor Sparker had made it quite clear that the device was not for poking fingers at or getting my mitts on. "It's easy to snap springs, blow fuses, or pop corks with spurting sparks. It's not for working on by idiots. Rubber-necked sightseers should keep their hands in their pockets. Relax, and watch the blinking lights." So accordingly, I touched only the things I was told to, and wrote down when the lights came on and what the Big Hand was pointing at. I kept this up for several weeks, until I hoped and prayed that something, anything would happen.

Mrs. Najilah Moghadam did not return, and I was glad. For all her charms, she was simply too dangerous, in more ways than one. And call me old-fashioned if you will, but it was perfectly clear that she was not interested in me, but more in the idea of me. The dashing and ruggedly handsome foreign secret agent, who would sweep her off her feet and presumably ravish her at some point. She would be disappointed to learn that we spies mostly try to avoid dashing anywhere, and that we appreciate a good stint of boredom like a fine wine.

Be that as it may, this particular period of boredom was starting to grate on me. My guardians spoke very little and hardly even showed themselves. Guarding a hellish device that might devour one's soul if one wasn't careful, was a job best left to a foreign expendable kafir. Food and tea without milk was provided at regular intervals. Apart from that, I was left on my own.

 
I had just transcribed another fine piece of utter gibberish when the guard in the minaret called down. People were approaching the masjid, white people by the looks of it. A few minutes later someone banged on the door, and I heard English voices. I took this as a sign that, inshallah, my trials would soon be ended. A few moments later, Carl Tennant and Miss Brenda Lee came walking in with Omar, one of the guards.

"Don't touch anything," I said.

"For goodness' sake," said Carl. "Burn down one secret hideout, and suddenly you have a name."

Miss Lee held up two fingers. "Forgetting the Eagle's nest, Tennant. I used to live there before you wrecked it."

"That wasn't my fault," said Carl. "That was the Khartoum Airfleet. How have you been getting on Wainwright?"

"Wonderfully," I said. "The marvels of Electrickal Magics are fascinating."

Miss Lee walked up to the Device and reached out her hand. I grabbed her wrist.

"Will you please stop trying to burn down every place you find yourself in?"

She nodded her head at it. "The London light is on."

"London?" I took a leap and flipped the lever. I grabbed my notebook and started to write down the letters.

"-IGHT, ARE YOU THERE? WAINWRIGHT, ARE YOU THERE?"

The message kept repeating over and over again. I sat staring at the clock for a long few moments. This had to be Sparker. Nobody else would want to and know how. I reached out and turned the letter disc to "Y", let it go.

"That's how I sent the whole place up in flames last time," said Carl.

"Where's the ladies?" Miss Lee eyed the exits. "I really need to go."

"Will you be quiet?" I turned a page on my notebook. "We got rid of the oil tank. There's a new message."

"WHERE IS LADY I?"

"Khartoum Airport," said Carl.

Which was untrue. Lady I was hovering above us, ready to turn this place of worship into a pile of rubble. Carl cleverly wasn't telling the Sudanese that. There might be hope for him yet.

"HERE," I spelled out.

"GOING WHERE?"

I looked at Carl. "Cape town. We have information."

I spelled this out to, I hoped, Sparker or old Professor Pike.

"PACKAGE MAIN POST OFFICE CAPE TOWN."

"Well," I said. "Now I know where we're going. Sadly, so does Slate."

 
I could not simply disappear into the night, without first paying a visit to Ahmad and his father. When the servant came with our lunch, I, Miss Lee, and Carl all bundled into the donkey cart, and after a doleful look at us, the donkey pulled us all to Moghadam Manor, where we were welcomed by Ahmad. Miss Lee was gently nudged towards the women's quarters. She took this with just a single foul look at us menfolk, who had important things to discuss without the chattering of women to distract us.

"Wainwright, my friend. Why have you left your position?"

"Ahmad, I have obtained news that our Enemy moves in the far South. I must pursue them. So my superiors tell me."

"Have you been able to break the secret of our Enemy's messages?"

"Not I, but Carl tells me that the people in Ipswich have. I will send my notes to them, and they will decipher them and send them to you."

I didn't know then just how childishly simple the code was, and that an Ipswich professor had cracked it with a mere glance. I had simply assumed that it would be impossible to break, because of where these messages came from. Of course, when one of Mr. Bouzid Moghadam's functionaries figured it out later, he didn't believe I hadn't spotted it. Which goes to show you should never underestimate or overestimate your enemies, or your friends.

I spent about half an hour telling Ahmad not very much, to be honest. With business and courtesy served, we walked to the front door, where we found Miss Lee waiting. Also present was Najilah, who expressed a very small amount of sadness at my departure. The Governor, Mr. Bouzid Moghadam, did not make an appearance. A servant brought me my luggage, and off we went.

"Looks like the Arabian princess has a liking for secret agents." Miss Lee wiggled her eyebrows. "If you know what I mean."

"Does she?" Carl glanced at me before turning back to Miss Lee. "Good Lord, she's married! Do you think it is... mutual?"

"Gets awfully lonely in there, all by yourself, nobody to talk to. And I have to say she's awfully pretty."

"Oh do shut up," I said. "She's not even allowed out of the house by herself."

"She's not?" Miss Lee grinned. "Naughty girl. I can tell you, there's trouble brewing in that house." Her smile faded. "Hope not all the crap is going to land on her head."

"Ahmad loves her," I said. "She's taking everything she can from him."

"But it's not enough, is it?" said Carl.

"Gold, fine silks, expensive perfumes, they are nice, but they're not the thing she really wants."

"Look at me." Miss Lee raised her arms, turned round and walked backwards facing us. "I'm a former Marine, former thug, former henchman, mixed blood, I did things I ain't gonna tell anyone. I've got so much ink on me no army will ever have me again, I'm working for a two bit cargo company run by a cripple who just learnt how to fly less'n a year ago. I make prissy university girls piss themselves just by looking at 'em. I'm scum." She laughed. "And the bitch is jealous of me."

"You are free," said Carl. "You're only on board because you want to be. If you wanted to leave, nothing could stop you."

"You can eat as much bacon as you want," I said. "Drink all the booze you want, in whatever watering hole you want."

"Exactly," said Miss Lee. "And if they won't give it to me, I can clean the goddamn place out." She turned forward again. "And I ain't jealous of her. Not even a little bit."

 

---

 
The longer you live, the more you realise that there is no such thing as a nice surprise. In hindsight, I could have known. Having Mrs. Najilah Moghadam join us on board shouldn't have been a surprise, but it caught me anyway, as did the events afterwards. She was whisked off to the ladies' cabin, and I got to help getting Lady I on her way. With the cables stowed and Mr. Parsons and me back inside, Lady I rose up, turned South, and engaged her engines. I stood a few moments listening, not to the hacking and puffing of other engines, but the high pitched whine of Parsons's powerful turbines and the lower undertones of the fast spinning propellers.

With my few possessions stowed away, I finally knocked on the bridge doors, handed over my Webley, and was allowed into the presence of Miss Sabine Moreau, taking over from Carl. She was reclining on a bed made out of sacks and reading a book, "A winter's tale" by the looks of it. She had unbuttoned her shirt part way, showing the tight bandages on her shoulders underneath. Her shorts had ridden up leaving a pair of nicely shaped legs on display for whoever enjoyed looking at them. I'm sure that in her innocence, she didn't even realise the effect this might have on impressionable young men.

"Evening Wainwright," said Carl, breaking an unwritten rule against giving information to prisoners. "You got roped into bird-watching then?"

"Trying to do my bit," I said. "Enjoy your evening."

"Thanks," said Carl, and walked out of the door.

I stepped over to Miss Sabine Moreau, who had closed her book, keeping a finger between the pages. She was watching me with dark eyes, a hint of a smile on her face.

"Wainwright."

"Miss Moreau."

I kneeled by her feet, pulled at the thin iron chain round her ankle. It was tight enough that she couldn't slip it off, but not so tight that it would cut off her circulation. It was fastened with a shackle often seen on sailing ships. The other end was looped round a metal part of the fuselage.

"I am completely helpless. Subject to every whim of my captors."

I looked round the place. Wooden crates were stacked around, securely fastened with ropes. Shielded gas lights were on the walls. I pointed at her book.

"How are you getting on with that?"

"Men never seem to trust women," she said. "And they are unreasonably obsessed with what women do to amuse themselves."

"To be fair, forsaking all others is one of the few things you promise when you get married." I looked her over once or twice. "Are you going to give me trouble?"

"Ça dépend. So far I have found two kinds of people here. The ones too squeamish to kill me, and those who cannot wait to kick me out of the door at high altitude. Which are you?"

"Me?" I sat down opposite her. "I would prefer not to kill anyone, not even you. Still, I am here in some sort of professional capacity. So if it became necessary, then I would regrettably have to oblige."

"How would you do it? Strangle me? Cut my head off like you did with poor Hester Klemm? Would you look into my eyes while you did it? Watch the life go out of them? Or would you just leave me in some desolate place to die slowly of hunger and thirst?"

"Oh, nothing like that. Bullet to the head before you realise what is going on. I've never seen the point in making anyone suffer before you kill them."

"I have a better proposition." She leaned forward a little. "If you unchain me, and promise to look the other way at the right moment, I will be happy to perform any kind of sexual favour you can think of. Even a few you can't."

I raised an eyebrow. "What happened to death before dishonour?"

"Jouer la flûte Anglaise, ou m'avoir brulée la cervelle." She sighed. "Comment choisir?"

"Hm. At the risk of stating the obvious, you do not have all that much choice in the matter."

She did have a nice laugh. "You're right. I don't. In fact..." She uncaringly dog-eared the page, put the book on a crate, lay back. "If you really want to, you can have me this very moment. There is nothing I can do to stop you until my arms get better. But I can promise you this. If you give me a reason to be grateful, I can give you the best night of your life. If you don't, you will spend the rest of your life wondering."

"It's still not a very good proposition for you. I could just shoot you afterwards."

"True." Miss Moreau sat back against the crate, picked up her book, and found her page. She ran her fingers up her thigh, exposing a bit more skin. "If it's to be my last time, I'd better make sure I enjoy myself as well."

 

---

 
Miss Moreau was asleep, having snapped the book shut with an exasperated 'Mon Dieu' about three quarters of the way through. She was making small pained noises, had turned onto her back, presumably to take the strain off her shoulders. Carl had told me, through clenched teeth, what Riley had done to her. She might not be a nice girl. In fact, she was as far away from being a nice girl as it was possible to be. That still didn't warrant the pain and terror inflicted on her. Not to cause suffering to others; that is the Law. Are we not men? Are we not better than this? Do we not, by ill-treating others like this, forfeit any right to the mercy of others?

At about midnight, Miss Lee came in to relieve me. She woke up Miss Moreau and gave her a cup of tea with milk and morphia. Miss Moreau accepted it with a quiet Merci and drank it quickly. Within moments, her eyes fell shut again.

"Right, I got her." said Miss Lee. "Get out of here."

"Quiet watch," I said.

Miss Lee nodded once, settled in. I took one last look at Miss Moreau and walked to the mess hall. I found Najilah sitting alone at the table, tea mug between her hands, her expression still and impossible to read. Her bright blue eyes turned to me, almost but not quite meeting my gaze.

"Agent Wainwright. Would you like some tea?"

"Yes please."

She got up, fetched a cup, put in a splash of milk, then filled it from the kettle. I looked at her gold necklace, gold earrings, gold nose-ring, the silk dress she had run away in. Here was a woman richer even than Emma the banker's daughter, and she was serving me tea. She put the cup in front of me without looking at me.

"Thank you."

She sat back down, sipped her own tea.

"Najilah. I've asked you this before, but why are you here?"

She stared into her teacup. "Because I couldn't stay where I was."

"Why not?"

For the first time since she had appeared in my bedroom in Khartoum, Najilah looked straight into my eyes.

"Is the tea good?"

I took a small sip. "Just what I needed."

She stared at the wall. "I will have to learn how to make kafir tea."

"You put the milk in first," I said. "As ordained by the Gods. You will do fine."

"Which way is East?"

I pointed to the port side. "We are heading South."

"I will go to the cargo hold and pray. Then I will go to bed."

And with that, she left. I watched her go, shoulders straight, confident steps, without looking back. I wondered. Miss Lee was sure Najilah envied her her freedom, but surely, she wielded more power at home than here with us on board of a small airship, yet to earn her stripes in the scientific community. What would become of her the moment she stepped off at Cape Town? What would she do? I sat a while, drinking my tea. I took my empty cup and her half-empty one to the galley, washed them up and put them with the others. When I walked into the hold, Najilah was gone.

I walked up to the bridge, opened the door. Fatin Tennant was at the helm. She gave me a genuine warm smile.

"Agent Wainwright. How do you do?"

"How do you do?"

She looked ahead. We were above the clouds and the moon turned them into a shining plane of white waves, cold and beautiful.

"I am running in the clouds with my friends, and thinking of my tribe. They are sleeping, and the rain is on the tents."

"How do you know it's raining where they are?"

"It's the rain season. I like the rain when I am warm in my tent with Carl and Raage." She turned the big wheel a tiny amount. "I love Lady I, but you can't hear when it's raining."

"Maybe if you sleep in the canopy you can hear better. That's what Miss Moreau did."

A dark cloud passed over Fatin's face. "But not for listening to the rain. She was hiding to kill us all."

"Like a tigress lying in wait."

"A tiger is a beast. It kills because it must, because it is hungry for the kudu's flesh to fill its belly. But not her. She is hungry in her soul for the pain of other people. She is not a tiger. She is... human."

"Did you talk with her?"

"No. I have no words for her, and she has no words for me."

I leaned on the bridge railing and watched her, from her bare feet to her large mass of dark curly hair. She noticed, and smiled. I started to yawn, caught myself.

"You should go to sleep," she said. "Tomorrow will be a long day."

"You're right." I stood up, looked once more at the magical sky-scape ahead of us. "Before I go, can I get you something?"

She handed me her tea mug. No dainty little cups on the bridge. I filled it with milk and tea as the Gods ordained, and handed it to her. She sipped, put down the mug, looked out, drinking in the beauty of the night.

"Thank you. Good night."

 

---

 
It took Lady I four days to cross the African mainland North to South. We were taking it fairly easy, to conserve high energy coal. Miss Sunderland spent most of her time watching over Andrew Parsons, who kept himself busy tinkering with various parts of our airship, most notable of which a device that would crack, scramble, and boil eggs. The Captain was usually on the bridge, cup of xocolatl in hand, gazing into the distance, now and then speaking to people unseen.

Carl, Brenda, Alexandra and I took turns guarding Sabine, who kept quiet, only reminding me of her generous offer with her body language as she read through Shakespeare's collected works. I honestly didn't know what to do with her any more than anyone else. I expected that we would have to dispose of her, but nobody, not even Alexandra, was eager to do the deed. It's one thing to wish someone dead, but quite another to actually kill them. It's what keeps the majority of the human race alive. We still had a day or two to decide, but the cynic in me knew that once we were over civilised areas, it would be more difficult to get rid of the body. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly.

Wadcroft and Enderby had claimed the library as their own, and were putting their time on board to good use writing scientific papers. According to Wadcroft, the continents of Africa and America were drifting away. In millions of years, they would meet on the other side of the Earth and crash into each other, causing massive earthquakes. I must admit that I couldn't quite imagine whole continents drifting in the sea like sticks under a bridge even, as Wadcroft said, at the speed my fingernails were growing. Slowly but unstoppable.

It reminded me of other things moving. Even though I couldn't read the messages sent across the world, I could count them, and our enemy clearly had much to discuss. Slate had effortlessly escaped our attempts to bring the mountain of the Eagle's Nest down on his head, and had undoubtedly moved to another lair. Our list of locations was running out, with most of the hideouts now destroyed, but were those all of Slate's lairs? Were new heads growing now even as we struck off the existing ones? Was 'Bona Spei' the one where we would find him and put an end to his evil doings? All we had to go on were the anguished screams of Sabine Moreau, desperate for the pain to stop. Never a reliable source of information.

Najilah had removed all her jewellery, and now dressed in a modest dark blue dress. She no longer wore a scarf or veil, displaying her long dark hair for all to see, though she still prayed five times every day. She joined us for meals, answered politely but coolly when spoken to, but otherwise kept to herself. Whatever fascination she might have had for me seemed to have faded. She showed no interest in our prisoner in what the Tennants referred to as 'Second Class'.

And so Lady I leisurely flew on in the direction of the Cape of Good Hope, all of us busy with our own thoughts, over Africa's vast and beautiful lands.

 

---

 
We were half a day away from Cape town, it was late in the evening. The only people awake were Alexandra at the helm, and me on guard duty. Even Miss Moreau was fast asleep. She had overexerted her damaged shoulder reaching behind her for a book, which caused her such pain that she gratefully downed a double dose of medicine and fell asleep in seconds. Soon, the Cape Town airport authorities would come on board and we would have to move her up into the envelope. One thing was clear: we weren't going to kill her in cold blood. What we were going to do was still a question. Sad to say, I was to play a role in answering that question.

The evening promised to be extraordinarily dull. I sat on a cushion on the floor with a Thermos of tea next to me, watching Miss Moreau who was lying facing me, back close to the wall. She hadn't moved a muscle for almost two hours, and at one point I had worried that we had given her too much morphia and done by accident what we wouldn't do on purpose. But she was breathing, and I didn't want to wake her by feeling for a pulse.

It was ten o'clock in the evening, I had just pulled out my watch, when the door opened. It wasn't the end of my shift yet, that was at two in the morning when Brenda would take over. But it wasn't Brenda who came in, it was Najilah.

"Salam Aleikum," I said.

Najilah laughed. "Aleikum Salam. Are you sure you want to speak Arabic with me, Agent Wainwright?"

"Your English is better than my Arabic," I said.

"May I sit down?"

I moved aside, put one of the cushions on the floor for her. She sat down, leaned back against the wall, looked at Sabine.

"So she is the murderess? She doesn't look like much."

"She's dangerous. Not looking like a threat is one of the reasons why."

"Then why is she still alive? Are you hoping to get more answers from her?"

"Maybe."

"If you had given her to Ahmad's father, she would now be telling you anything you want to know, at the slightest touch."

"Not what we want to know. She would tell us what she'd think would make us happy. And how would we question her if we have no questions to ask?"

"So you keep her alive, and fed."

I looked at Najilah's face. "Ahmad doesn't really know about your nightly visits, does he?"

She turned bright blue eyes to me. A little smirk was on her lips. "I could have mounted you naked in Ahmad's very own bedroom, and still he would not know. It is Bouzid that one has to be afraid of."

"So how did you manage to get into the mosque?"

"I have a trusted servant. Bouzid's head clerk helps me hide what I do."

"Are you sure you can trust him?"

"Ahmad has an older sister. This clerk thinks she is the most beautiful creature in the world, and one day he wrote her a letter saying so. She never received it, but I did. If I would let it fall into Bouzid's hands, he would remove the clerk's genitals. He will do anything I tell him. Provide clothes, distract guards, open doors. Anything."

"Moghadam Manor sounds like a wonderful place to live. Najilah, for the third time of asking, why are you here?"

Najilah glanced at Sabine, as if to make sure she was really asleep. Then she pulled up her skirt and raised her leg, so I could see her bare thigh. Barely visible in the dim light against her dark skin were darker lines, a picture of a kind of flower.

"Do you know what this is, Wainwright?"

"A tattoo. I thought those were haram."

"I wasn't always Muslim. I converted to marry Ahmad. Look more closely."

I did, concentrating on the picture rather than the thigh it was printed on. "A rose?"

"A desert rose. It is not a flower. It is a curiously shaped stone. It will never bloom. Among my people, it has a special meaning." She looked into my eyes. "Can you guess?"

I thought a few moments. "You will never bloom. You cannot have children."

"Just so. In maybe another year or so, Ahmad would have started to wonder why I have not given him a son yet. I would be surprised if Bouzid didn't guess already. Ahmad would have taken another wife, and I would be..." She shrugged.

"So you decided to jump before you were pushed." I closed my eyes for a moment. "I am sorry."

"I am not. It means I can do this."

In one fluid motion, Najilah slid onto my lap, pulled her blouse over her head, revealing nothing underneath except her dark skin. I think I can be forgiven for being lost for words.

"Um," I said finally, "I thought you never repeated an offer once refused."

"I am not offering anything, Agent Wainwright." She reached out and ripped open my shirt. "I am taking."

 
I am not stupid. Neither am I a saint. I am also not dead from the waist down. I would like to see you decline politely when the most beautiful woman you have ever seen in your life sits in your lap and presses her body against you in a passionate frenzy of kisses. She was, in a word, perfect. Her fingers on my skin. The intense look in her eyes as she seached for, and found, all my most sensitive spots. She played me like a musical instrument, and responded ecstatically to my every touch. She took me inside of her, eagerly, hungrily, and I couldn't help matching her move for move. The notion that this was her craft, her expertise, the thing that made her worth all the gold spent on her, was distant, ignored like a pea under the mattress as she was a princess no more. I took a firm hold of her, rolled over on top. Pure unadulterated lust was on her face, her pleasure in possessing me as she wrapped her legs round me and urged me on, burning all bridges behind her, rushing forward to a future that was nobody's to grasp but hers. To her, it must have been a ritual, to mark the fact that Mrs. Moghadam was gone, and from now on there would only be Najilah. I hesitate to call it making love, as Love had nothing to do with it. But god, if I could have, I would have gone on forever. It certainly felt like forever. I fell asleep with her in my arms.

 

---

 
I woke up rather abruptly. Najilah was gone. Sabine Moreau was gone. But to make up for it, Miss Brenda Lee was there, and she had just given me a sturdy kick to the groin. Not an improvement, I must say, but I suppose I deserved it.

"You goddamn idiot!"

I curled up with a painful groan. Miss Brenda never changed her taste in boots since she left the Marines.

"Get your goddamn pants on. And then you can explain why you let the Princess shag you silly and run off with that little murdering bitch."

 
Oh, as you rightly say, dear.

Alexandra Tennant: Seduced by the darkness

Flown the coop - Presents from Algernon - Seek and destroy - Captured - Working with amateurs - Right in the middle of her forehead - Up in flames - When I was bad, I was horrid

 

---

 

ANOTHER GUEST LECTURE CANCELLED!

 

Rina Prescott reporting

 

It is with a profound disappointment that the Clarion must announce that the guest lecture by the renowned skeptic, conjuror, and educator Mr. Randall Zwinge, has been canceled due to protests from certain parts of the student body, and even, it is rumoured, faculty.

 

The lecture would have been on the parts of the Human mind that allow it to succumb to such obvious deceptions as spirit-healing, speaking with the Dead, and most tellingly, Homoeopathy. There would have been a debate between Mr. Zwinge and Prof. Brassica, but unnamed individuals have brought to the surface rumours that Mr. Zwinge might be engaged in sexually deviant acts, be sympathising with undesirable elements in society, and have connections with Satanic cults. Thus it was decided to cancel his invitation.

 

This is an outrage. It should be clear that any of these rumours are nothing but a smear campaign against a man who has dedicated his life to unearthing the dirty tricks perpetrated by the unscrupulous against the vulnerable. But due to these shady politics, we will now not be informed about these practices, and we will be poorer for it. We have written to Mr. Zwinge, but so far not received a response.

 
Are we sure we want to publish this? Political things like this can get a bit difficult. I can do a thing on the Alchemy department instead. -- RP It's a good piece, of course we're bloody publishing this! I don't care who Mr. Zwinge wants to have in his bed, or who he chooses to talk to. Bloody quacks want to keep us stupid. -- LD I knew you'd say that. Damn the cannons, full steam ahead! -- RP

 

---

 
It's so nice to work with professionals. Nothing is better than the warm feeling that the person on the job has the experience and knowledge to avoid the mistakes that we rank amateurs make. Someone who is not swayed by the feminine wiles of treacherous women who will unscrupulously use their allure to, not to put too fine a point on it, make the Beast With Two Backs, to wear out one who is after all only a man. Wainwright, even if he lived to be a hundred, would never forget how he let Sabine Moreau escape. If ever he did, we would be happy to remind him.

Father is not one given to outbursts of anger, but his hard stare has not suffered from losing his eye. He took at least ten minutes to calmly explain his views on the matter, without even once calling Wainwright a pillock.

"Do you have any questions?"

"No Sir," said Wainwright.

"Have I been clear?"

"Perfectly clear Sir."

We didn't throw Wainwright off the ship. Though nobody wanted to admit it, Sabine's escape saved us from having to kill her. We are not innocents. Our hands are not clean of blood. If I had gained the upper hand in our fight, I would have broken her neck without a thought. Once the die is cast, there is no holding back, no quarter asked or given, and sheer rage guides your hand. I am a sniper, and while to some being a Sniper, an Assassin, a Warrior, may sound exciting and glamorous, when it comes down to it, it is a job that includes killing people. I have shot and killed people in firefights, from a long way away. Bandits attacking our expedition in Angola. Cannibals in Sudan. Murderous miners bent on killing us. Prometheus henchmen. If Sabine Moreau and I would meet in another fight, I would not hesitate to use deadly force, and neither would she.

Killing her in a fight is one thing. Executing her is quite another. Father telling her calmly that we had decided to end her life. Carl and Brenda dragging her to the open bomb hatch. Offering her a last drink, a last smoke, a last prayer, putting a gun to her head, pulling the trigger, then finally watching her body, alive up till a moment ago, tumble down and away. I understand killing in anger, driven by your own will to survive, a case of one or the other of us dying. Moral introspection is not helpful to one's own survival in such a situation. But calmly deciding that a living human being must die? We ourselves are fallible human beings, and death is final. What if our decision is wrong? What if showing mercy would have saved us? By her escape, Sabine had freed us from such a decision, and secretly we were glad. Which is why we weren't too hard on poor Wainwright, his brain addled by the excitement of finally losing his virginity.

It did make our position more dangerous. Who knew what Sabine would get up to? No doubt, Nicholas Slate would know all about our location and intentions by now, and would be ready to act accordingly. Or maybe he would punish Sabine for allowing herself to be captured and having the location of their island base forced from her. We could only hope, and after all, Slate was already evil. Executing one more minion would not make any difference to his blackened soul.

 

---

 
We were in Cape Town, at a small airfield close to the sea port. A present would be waiting for us at Cape Town's main post office. Wadcroft and Margaret decided they needed a walk and Felicia offered up Andrew for heavy lifting. She told Andrew he was coming along, and he simply nodded and pulled on his coat. It was hot enough to melt the lead bullets in our revolvers, but Andrew was a man of habit, and putting on his coat was what he did when going out. Fatin had wanted to come, but Margaret, with some embarrassment, explained that the political situation in this part of the world was not in favour of having people of different colours in the same company. Society here in South Africa was strictly segregated up to the point that there were separate water taps for Black and White. Carl smiled and pointed out how convenient it was that Raage, being both Black and White, could use either tap. Margaret opened her mouth to explain, caught the gleam in Carl's eye. For all his gentle ways, my big brother can hide a lot of anger.

I put my hand on his shoulder, looked into his eyes. "Let's try not to stay here for too long."

"Let's go," he said.

 
Brenda, Carl, and I walked out into Cape Town under the leadership of Agent Wainwright, who would be teaching us the proper way to spy. The first port of call was the harbour authority, where we sat down looking through the records of ships entering and leaving. We made a list of all the smaller boats that had left port to return a day or two later. They might be supplying Prometheus' base and we would be able to watch them from the air. With our list complete, we retired to a harbourside White pub for a restorative cup of coffee. They do things to coffee in South Africa and none of us finished our cups. Next, Wainwright excused himself for about an hour to visit a contact of the Secret Service while Carl, Brenda, and I had the local potjiekos, a kind of stew normally cooked on a campfire outside, with rustic bread and a pint of beer. Wainwright returned, looked at our empty plates, and ordered a plate of boerewors with potatoes and some sort of vegetable.

He told us nobody here had been observed stealing fire from the gods, but there were plenty of shadowy things going on. Clearing Capetown of all crime was a bit of a tall order, so he suggested instead we try to find some of the boats on our list.

 
The docks were busy, people talking, the rattle of horse drawn carts, the fishwives' voices above it all, offering all kinds of fresh seafood. Where in the pub, there had only been White folk, here Black and White mixed, moved past, paying no more attention to each other than to the carts and crates standing by. The fishing boats had just come in and they were busy getting the fish from the hold into the cold-house. We weren't very interested in them, as fishermen don't take detours to deliver two pounds of cod to evil island lairs. We wanted the small cargo vessels.

As we walked down the quay, Carl stopped suddenly, and I almost walked into him.

"Hey! Careful, brother!"

He pointed ahead. "Is that Najilah?"

Wainwright looked. After all, he knew her best. In the Biblical sense.

"Could be," he said.

Brenda grinned at him. "Hard to say with her clothes on?"

"Oh give it a..."

At that moment, the woman looked in our direction, recognised us, and ducked into an alley between two warehouses. Prey drive asserted itself and Brenda and Carl set off at speed. Wainwright set off after them, and I came last, running as fast as my poor legs would take me. Wainwright looked at me, and said something forceful under his breath. He gave a shout.

"Don't just run off, you bloody idiots!" He turned back to me.

"Go!" I shouted. "I'll catch up!"

He hesitated for one moment, then sprinted after Brenda and Carl. I tried to follow them as fast as I could, but it was no use. I couldn't wring another inch of speed out of my legs. I came to a crossing, and I didn't know where they had gone.

I stood still. The alley went on ahead, and there were another two branching off. I looked down one alley, saw nothing. Looked ahead, and again saw nothing. I looked to my right, and... saw something. Sabine Moreau was running towards me, and leapt into one of her chassé-bas kicks.

Not. This. Time.

I moved away from her, grabbed her arm, kept her moving forward, pushed my hip into her, and sent her tumbling to the ground. She landed with a satisfying thud and a painful grunt. I stepped forward.

"I'm going to rip your arms off, bitch."

She reached under her jacket, pulled out a revolver, aimed it at me.

"Not before I shoot you in the face, salope."

And that ended the Martial arts chapter of the story.

 
She got to her feet without using her hands, never letting her eyes or her gun waver. She put her hand, gun and all, in her pocket.

"You have a weapon, don't you? Drop it on the ground. Doucement."

I pulled out my revolver. With anyone else, I might have relied on the normal human reluctance to shoot and tried to fire. Sabine Moreau had no such reluctance, and I dropped my weapon. She didn't even bother to pick it up, and pointed into the alley.

"That way."

I gave her a long look, then moved. She was close behind me, gun hidden in her pocket.

"Don't try anything stupid, or you'll have to walk the rest of the way without your kneecaps."

"I am already walking without my kneecaps."

She punched me in the back, making me gasp. "Thank you for telling me. I will find something else to shoot."

We walked out of the alley, along the docks, to a warehouse marked Paarden Eiland First Shipping Company. There were no opportunities to try something stupid or clever. She opened a side door.

"Après vous," I said.

"Mais non. Après vous."

I walked to the door and she pushed me inside. It's a matter of showing you who's boss. Establishing dominion. Mind tricks. The place was filled with crates. There were small but bright gas lights on the ceiling. We walked up the stairs to an office raised above the floor so the Boss could see all that was going on in the warehouse. Waiting for us in the office was Najilah Moghadam.

"What have you brought me, Sabine? A little kafir whore?"

Sabine laughed. "A new toy for you." She pulled a chair into the middle of the room, looked at me. "Sit."

I sat down.

"Najilah. Tie her hands to the chair, behind her back."

In hindsight, that was the crucial moment. Carl and I had once been to the theatre to see the great Houdini, and had watched in awe as the man escaped from ropes, chains, handcuffs, a straitjacket. We got a book on escapology from the library, and spent almost the whole week tying each other up and trying to escape. The time to prepare is when you are being tied up. Breathe in. Tense your muscles to make them large, creating space when you relax. Sabine would certainly have known about these things. Najilah walked up behind me, whispered in my ear.

"Your hands."

I obediently held my hands behind my back, fists pushed together. Najilah wrapped the rope round my wrists. Using another length of rope she tied my ankles to the chair legs.

"Make sure it's tight," said Sabine. "That way she won't feel it when we cut off her fingers to send to her family." She smiled at me. "Thank you for the morphia, chérie."

"You're welcome."

Sabine walked round to admire Najilah's work. I kept the ropes nice and tight, made a few appropriate painful noises.

"Good. Tell me, Najilah. Why did you ever take up with these imbeciles?"

"They were convenient. No Khartoum airline would have traded with a woman. And of course there were other... advantages. Entertainment."

"Mon Dieu don't remind me. I was right next to you. I almost wish I hadn't spit out that last dose of morphia."

"But you did, and here I am." She flicked her hair over her shoulder and turned to Sabine. "Though I still don't know why I should accept your invitation."

"Invitation?" I said. "She invited you to her party? Sabine. You never invited me. I'm hurt."

"You wasted your chance in Paris. And if you think you're hurt now, just wait."

Najilah gently stroked my hair, then grabbed a handful and jerked my head back, making me look up at her.

"A servant girl once dropped my favourite teacup. I whipped her myself. Shut up, or I will cut out your tongue." She pushed my head forward and down, turned back to Sabine. "Why should I go to your... party?"

Sabine looked at me, chuckled, looked back at Najilah. "We are Prometheus. We are the creators of the new world. Our organisation is vast, powerful, rich..."

"Evil," I added. "Largely imaginary. Oh and if you say no, they'll kill you."

Sabine stood square in front of me, deliberately pulled back her arm, and smacked me hard across the face. "You must be a glutton for punishment, chérie."

I tasted the blood in my mouth, and decided against answering.

Sabine turned her back on me, put her hand on Najilah's shoulder. "Come with me. I will show you."

 
They walked out of the door, and as soon as the door closed, I started working on the rope round my wrists. I had created a little slack by the way I held my hands, and by twisting my wrists, I made more, till I could pull one hand free. I would have untied my feet as well, but before I could, I heard noises outside, and I quickly put the ropes back round my wrists. Najilah and Sabine came back in, and there was a subtle change in the way they were looking at each other.

"From all the way across the oceans," said Sabine. "The Magister can pass us word from Paris, Khartoum. Our web spans the whole world! Already the Lightening is our servant. Soon, we will have the knowledge to harness the power of the Sun, yes, bring the Sun itself to Earth to do our bidding. And you, Najilah, can become part of this. People like your father in law, like the governments of countries, they will become as ants to you. The door is open, ma chère. Will you enter?"

"It all seems like the power of the Djinn. Can you truly wield such power? And what will be my place?"

"We will find you a place to suit your abilities. We have a new Eagle's Nest. You saw with your own eyes, the Magister has summoned me there. We could govern together, you and I. Five thousand souls, and you would shine above them all."

"I will be the Eagle," said Najilah. "I will ensure that the Magister's wishes are always obeyed. I will reward and punish as I see fit."

Sabine pushed a lock of hair behind Najilah's ear, put her hand behind her head, pulled her close, and kissed her. Up to that moment, I had never been there to see someone fall in love. No, sadly not even myself. I watched her, standing stock still, shocked at first at what was happening to her. Being the daughter of a people who would stone her to death for kissing a man she was not married to, let alone a woman, this was so totally, gloriously, wonderfully wrong to her. Her eyes closed, and she drank deep of this new experience, sweeter, stronger than wine. Sabine stroked her back, ran her fingers through her hair. Najilah clung to her for dear life, and was completely lost. It must have been the happiest moment of her life.

As they were kissing, Sabine opened one eye, looked at me, lingered on Najilah's lips for a moment longer, then broke the kiss. They looked into each other's eyes.

"Come," said Sabine, and turned her head to me.

Najilah looked at me.

"What do we do with her?"

Sabine's eyes shone. "Kill her. She is of no more use to us." She drew her revolver, cocked the hammer, held it up to Najilah. "Do you want to do it?"

Najilah looked at the gun, back up at Sabine. She took it from her.

"Yes."

She turned round to me. Sabine stood close behind her, arms round her waist, chin on her shoulder, one hand just below her left breast, to feel her heart beat.

"Tell me," said Najilah. "What is the best way?"

"The best way is to shoot her in the stomach, and watch her bleed to death as her own stomach acid devours her inside. But we don't have the time for that." Sabine touched her lips to Najilah's ear, moved forward with her till she stood right in front of me. "If you have just a minute, this is what you do. Look at her. Even now she doesn't truly believe that you will kill her. Aim for her forehead. Look into her eyes. Savour the moment. Think of what you are going to do. Wait. Wait until you see in her eyes that she understands. Until she knows that her story is over. Watch her fear grow. And just when she opens her mouth to beg for her life... Shoot."

Najilah raised the gun, and I looked steadily into her eyes.

"Najilah. Are you sure that you want to walk this path? There is no return, and at its end lies only death."

She hesitated only a tiny moment, then an almost lustful smile appeared on her face. She put the gun to my head.

"Yes."

There is a rule that fighters ignore to their peril. Knives may be for close up, but guns work best at a distance. I dropped the ropes from my wrists to the floor. I jerked my head out of the way, brought my arm round fast, and snatched the gun from her hand. My legs may be rubbish, but my upper body strength rivals that of any woman. With all my strength, I slammed my fist, weighted down with the revolver, into the side of Najilah's face, sending her staggering to the side. In the time it took me to turn the gun round in my hands, Sabine turned and ran out of the door. I raised the gun and rapid-fired three times. Sabine screamed, and her footsteps faltered before picking up again and disappearing. Najilah was trying to sit up, managed to raise herself. She moved backwards on her hands and feet, till she hit the wall. She was shaking, eyes wide.

"Please don't kill me! Please! I wasn't going to shoot I just wanted the gun and then I would have shot her I was just waiting for the right moment I am with you I sailed on your airship I broke bread with you please please please!" She lapsed into Arabic, folded her hands, pleading, praying.

I still remember those moments as clearly as if I am seeing them acted out in a theatre. I remember starting to say something, changing my mind. I see myself aiming. Firing. The small hole appearing in the middle of her forehead. The sudden splash of red blood on the white wall. The way her eyes stared at nothing as her body slumped to the ground. I remember every splintered second.

I put the gun on the floor, and untied the ropes round my ankles. Picking up the gun, I made my way to the door without looking at Najilah's dead body. I saw the blood trail immediately, and followed it, aware that Sabine might be waiting for me somewhere. The trail of blood led to a door with a bloody handprint on it, then outside, and from there... anywhere.

 
I walked back inside carefully, until I found a large crate underneath the office, with light coming from a hatch in the side. I aimed my gun at the hatch, looked inside. There was nobody inside, but tucked against the side was one of Prometheus' Hermes devices. The light marked "NIDIS AQUILARUM" was on. At this very moment, Nicholas Slate was watching a similar device, God only knew where in the world. I bared my teeth, reached out for the wheel of letters and turned it.

I AM STILL ALIVE. I AM COMING-

There was the sound of a bell, and a red light came on. There was a sound of breaking glass, running liquid, a smell of oil. I said earlier that I could not run any more. I must have been mistaken, because I made my way outside in record time as behind me, the world exploded in flames. I ran to the wooden fence, tried to jump up to pull myself over, as I used to do in many an obstacle course, but missed. With a crash, the door opened and I pointed my gun at the figure coming in.

"Alex!"

I closed my eyes as Carl took hold of the gun, pointed it somewhere safe, then crushed me in an embrace. He looked at my face, winced.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm alive. Sabine got away. Najilah..." I took a breath. "Didn't. She is dead."

I looked round. Right in the middle of the door, watching the burning warehouse, was Andrew Parsons, a wooden trunk strapped to his shoulders, brandishing some kind of metal fishbone.

"We must move to the rallying point, and warn the fire department," he said. "There is a fire."

Who could argue with that?

So that's what we did.

 

---

 
We rallied at the airport. There had been two search parties, Andrew and Carl were on one, with Andrew operating some sort of magical device that could sniff out Hermes devices. Brenda and Wainwright continued the search in the harbour, reasoning that if they had taken me, they might want to take me to their island lair.

I walked into he mess hall. Margaret jumped up and embraced me, held me at arm's length and looked me over.

"I'm alright," I said.

I sat down at the table, put down my... Sabine's revolver, and started to shake. My teeth chattered, and I could hardly remain upright. Brenda sat down next to me, held me.

"Keep it together, Tennant!"

Father came in, sat down on my other side.

"Alexandra. You're safe." He held my hand, looked into my eyes. "Thank God you are safe. Can you tell us what happened?"

I tried to steady my breath. "I got... caught. Sabine. She took me to... Hideout. Warehouse. Najilah was there."

Felicia stepped up. "Is she allright?"

"She's..." I took a few breaths. "She is dead."

"You mean that horrible woman killed her?"

I looked up into Felicia's eyes, wide with horror. It would be so easy. Blame Sabine. Nobody would know. Nobody but me.

I shook my head. "I did."

Felicia just stood there, mouth agape. "You killed her? But why?"

"She pointed a gun at my head and wanted to pull the trigger."

"Are you trying to tell me..."

Brenda glared at her. "Shut up Felicia."

"Well I never!"

"And if you keep giving her grief..." Brenda's eyes narrowed. "You never will."

Felicia stood stock still for five long seconds, then turned round and left.

"Miss Lee?" said Father. "Be nice."

"She'll live. She ain't the one who's almost had her head blown off."

"That is true. That is why I'm letting you off with a reprimand."

"Oh thank God," said Brenda.

Father turned to me, touched my cheek. The sore cheek, but it's the thought that counts. I told them what had happened. It was simple enough. I didn't leave anything out, not even that Najilah had been helpless when I shot her. It was almost like a confession. Margaret gave me a mug of tea, and I had stopped shaking so I could drink it without spilling. I recognised only too well the taste of something other than tea, and drank deep. I put the cup on the table, looked at the faces of Andrew, Carl, Margaret, Wadcroft, Fatin, Brenda, and last at Father.

"My daughter. You are alive. You have killed or wounded two of the enemy, but most of all, you came back alive. Let's get you to bed."

I made myself smile. "First or second class?"

Father laughed. He pulled me to him, stroked my hair. "First. But if you have the gall to come out before you've had at least twelve hours of sleep, I will have you chained to your bed."

 
Nobody had to chain me to my bed. I was exhausted, but at the same time I woke up several times during the night. My dreams were a haphazard mix of nightmares. Shooting Najilah. Sabine chasing me. The revolver pointing at my head. Fire. But the worst was when Najilah joined us on board, blood oozing from the bullet hole in her forehead, eyes dull and dead. She pointed a finger at me. Everyone looked at her, then at me, and one by one, they turned their faces away. I woke up sobbing uncontrollably. Someone sat down on my bed, and I felt a soft hand on my shoulder.

"Alex?"

I looked up at Fatin. She pulled up the covers and got into bed, moving close behind me, arms wrapped round. She sang to me, a song in her own language, soothing, kind, warm. I understood everything except the words.

"I shot her, Fatin. I should have let her go, but I shot her. I am... a..."

"You are my friend. You are a hunter. Sometimes, we hunt the kudu for meat, and we thank its spirit for the life we have taken for ourselves. Sometimes, we hunt the old lion who cannot hunt anything but our children. We do not thank its spirit, and we are glad that it cannot eat our children anymore."

"Najilah wasn't an old lion. She couldn't hurt me, and still... I killed her. I should have just left. She was a... a civilian. She was with us."

There was a thud as Brenda jumped down from her bed.

"No she bloody wasn't. I'm with Fatin here, Tennant. I don't know if she planned to shag Wainwright silly just to let Sabine out, or if that was just something that she thought of later. But she made her choice when she cut the bitch loose and walked out with her." Brenda kneeled by the bed to look at me. "She stopped being a civilian the moment she picked up that gun. If you hadn't killed her, she damn sure would have killed you. All of Prometheus is declared hostile, Tennant. This was a legit kill."

I wanted to argue, but couldn't find anything to say.

"So now what?" Brenda stood up. "Do I get into bed with you?"

I felt more than heard Fatin laughing behind me, and she held me tighter. "Go to your own bed. I got here first."

"Pf. Your loss, not mine." Brenda grabbed the rail and leapt into bed.

"Good night Brenda Lee," said Fatin.

I tried to answer but couldn't. I fell asleep with Fatin's soft voice singing behind me.

Godfrey Pike: Extracurricular activities

The importance of being Maisie Dors - Fire from afar - From theory to practice - Ladies of negotiable affection - One final customer - The price of failure - Are you sure you want this?

 

---

 

KITCHENS CLOSED THIS AFTERNOON DUE TO UNREST

 

Linda Davenport reporting

 

This afternoon, the kitchens will not open for lunch, and no warm food will be available for students or faculty. This is the direct result of the fracas caused by a large number of students on learning that today's lunch would consist wholly of vegetable matter for the third day running. The serving counter was pelted with Brussels sprouts, potatoes, and cutlery until the Porters came in and forcefully restored order. It was an unfair contest, our Porters being mostly descended from Navvies and reared in the North on red meat and dark ale.

 

When asked for comment, Head Porter Barker showed no sympathy for those who resorted to violence, as one should not start a fight one cannot finish. What, he asked, were they thinking? But on the other hand, he added, while pointing a hand at the fleshless carnage, look what they're feeding the poor little mites. Do we want to raise wolves or rabbits?

 

On the one hand, violence must always be deplored and condemned. Violence, it is often said, is the last resort of the incompetent. On the other hand, forcing us into a vegetative state without consulting us on the matter is no way to treat the student body. We are humans, not farmyard animals. We are in a place of learning, in a place where the Mind rules supreme. Surely, Science can come up with a solution to satisfy all parties?

 
Sorry, can you do the editing on this? Can't do it myself, I have a dinner date! Our secret admirer has invited me to dinner! -- LD What perfect timing! Just as the kitchens close. Beware, my friend. He knows to strike when you are hungry and weakened. -- RP I shall stand strong, and succumb not to pleasures of the flesh other than on a plate. Can you do it? -- LD Sure, but only on the condition I get all the filthy details. -- RP

 

---

 
From: Dr. G. Pike

To: Miss Jocelyn Vale

Subject: Operation Rosebud mission briefing.

Classification: SECRET! Your eyes only. Destroy after reading.

 
Dear Miss Vale,

 
Given your demonstrated skills at purchasing a sack of potatoes and onions, I feel you are ready for a more challenging assignment. This will be an actual spy mission, and it will take you to a place where I sincerely hope you haven't been before. It will not be comfortable, which is by design.

 
Please be aware that this operation, while not strictly illegal, could be embarrassing to all concerned, and is to be kept secret at all costs. Nobody except you, me, and our contact at the venue Mrs. Rose Fern, must know of it. This operational secrecy is a fundamental part of our jobs as secret agents, and if you do not fully grasp it, this experiment is over.

 
You will be using the Maisie Dors cover, and you will be expected to stay in that persona from the start of the mission until the end. No-one must know your true name. No-one must know you, Jocelyn, were ever there.

The venue is named Club la Douce, run by a personal friend of mine named Mrs. Fern, who will be the only one to know you are not who you say you are. Club la Douce is a place where gentlemen can enjoy the company of attractive women, for an immodest fee. Please do not call it a brothel as Mrs. Fern would take offence. Club la Douce performs high quality services for the discerning customer.

Tonight, as every night, there will be a party at la Douce. Gentlemen, and maybe even a few ladies, will be welcomed at the club. They will enjoy drinks and entertainment in the lounge. If they so choose, they may adjourn to a separate room with a lady of their choice for some private conversation. Club la Douce has a strict policy on who is available and who is not. Needless to say, you are firmly in the latter category. Mrs. Fern will make sure of that, never fear. Your duties will include serving drinks, waiting tables, and cleaning up the rooms after use. Ursula, the resident chambermaid, will show you what to do. That will be your job.

 
Your mission will be to observe the patrons, and make a written report on everyone attending. Include as much information as you can. Names. Descriptions. Who they choose. What they eat and drink. Do not let this information fall into enemy hands, as Club la Douce does have a reputation for uncompromising discretion.

I will take you to the venue, leave you in Mrs. Fern's care, and collect you from her office after Club la Douce closes. If for any reason I cannot make it, speak with Mrs. Fern and she willl put you on a carriage back to Algernon. Do not deviate from these instructions. Do not go out alone.

You will be marked on the quality of the information you provide, your conduct while under cover, and your essay on the whole operation. Being found out, drawing too much attention to yourself, or dying will result in a failing mark.

 
Please read this message carefully, then burn it. Only senior agents are issued with self-destructive messages. A thing to look forward to. Good luck Probationary Agent Vale!

 
Yours,

Dr. Pike

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
I have had troubling news from Cape Town. Let me take a moment to marvel at this. I knew of events half way round the world, mere minutes after they occurred. The message transcribed by one of Sparker's undergraduates read: 'I am still alive. I am coming.' It was in plain text, not encrypted by the pitiful cypher used to throw us off. There was nothing else, but Sparker told me he intercepted a kill command from goodness knows where, and we haven't heard from Cape Town since. If I had to bet, I would wager that the message came from Miss Alexandra Tennant. It sounds like her. Defiance in the face of the enemy, when common sense would dictate that she keep quiet. Given the destructive force of untamed Hermes devices, I hope she came away with her life. In any case, the Tennants will by now have a Hermes Detection Device, which should help them find further Prometheus bases. Try not to break them all, will you?

There has been another change. Mixed in with the weakly encrypted platitudes are messages that cannot be decoded. I have mentioned this to Dr. Adleman, and he gave a litle nod.

"They do that on purpose, Pike. If they simply keep quiet when they have nothing to say, we will know something is up when finally they do speak." He grinned like a shark who has just spotted a tasty seal. "Finally something interesting. Give me these indecipherable messages, and we will see if we can't decipher them after all."

"Very well, I said." I thought a moment. "They know we are listening. Otherwise they would not take the trouble to swamp us with nonsense."

"I would imagine they realised that when their Paris base was captured. Maybe even before. We may not have been the first to get our hands on a working device."

"Well, with these new messages, you finally have something to sink your teeth into."

"It would appear so," said Dr. Adleman. "Keep me informed, and I daresay I can find an undergrad or two to do the crunching."

 
Sparker has just come round for a visit, and has some interesting news. He took me to the window and pointed at the top of the tower. There are now antennae sticking out in every direction. He has been producing listening devices en masse and making them listen in various directions. Using these devices, he can now tell which directions Khartoum and Paris are in. Which is of no use to us now, but maybe at some point, Prometheus will stop labelling their bases for our convenience, and still we will know where they are.

"I am calling it the George Bennett Array, P-pike. P-promise me you'll get the b-b-bastards when I point them out to you."

I didn't really know what to say, so I just patted him on the shoulder.

 
It's often said that more people in our job died because they didn't think hard enough, than because they didn't hit hard enough. It's staring me in the face right here, right now, Winston. Adleman and his cryptanalysis, Sparker and his ears for things unheard. Jocelyn and her acting talent. For the first time, I have a little hope that we may be able to defeat the enemy. We are a gentle, absent-minded, slightly odd force to be reckoned with. It almost feels like home.

 
Yours,

'Doctor' Pike.

 

---

 
I am sorry Winston. I'm not sending you this. It's mostly me talking to my friend, and personal thoughts on the Job as such. Despite our current entente, it is no longer any of the Service's business what goes on in my head. This will go into my personal files. I'll let Jocelyn tell you what happened. Much more entertaining.

 
I took Maisie Dors out to her first job, and I'm afraid she didn't quite make it. This didn't surprise me. Nobody passes their first test. Jocelyn came to my chambers wearing Maisie's clothes, and together we took a carriage.

"Are you ready Maisie?"

Before my eyes, the loud, pleasantly odd, exuberant Jocelyn turned into the shy, somewhat mousey Maisie Dors. She looked at me with dark eyes, took a shivering breath, swallowed.

"Yes Sir."

"Remember that you owe me for this, Maisie. This job pays more than any other, and your mother desperately needs the money." I gave her a piercing stare. "Do not disappoint me. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Sir."

We got out of the carriage at the train station, waited for it to leave, then walked the rest of the way to Club la Douce. We went round the back, the artist's entrance if you will, and were seen in by Henry, the major domo. He took us upstairs to see Mrs. Fern in her office. On seeing me, she put her pencil inside the ledger and closed it so I wouldn't see things I would, even in retirement, be forced to report.

I had known Rose Fern for many years. She had been one of the girls in a house of seriously ill repute, and had been a 'person of interest' in several woman smuggling cases, including the one with the original Maisie Dors. Through a combination of skill, luck, and determination, she had found herself in charge of a new and much more salubrious operation. Despite not quite seeing eye to eye with the Law, Mrs. Fern had steered her establishment from strength to strength until it fairly recently moved to where it was now, under the name of Club la Douce, enjoying an excellent reputation among the very rich.

Time waits for no-one, and her once golden hair had turned to a snowy white. There were lines in her face that hadn't been there when first we met. Her clothes no longer revealed as much as once they did. The blue eyes that had once made her the most profitable of girls were still as bright as ever. She gave me a warm smile and got up from behind her desk.

"Henry? Could you ask Ursula to come up?" She kissed me on both cheeks, looked me over once. "Godfrey. How good to see you. It's been too long. How have you been?"

"I'm retired, Rose. I am now a history teacher at Algernon. Doctor Pike, would you believe it?"

"Doctor? Well, not a moment to soon." She looked at Maisie. "And this is your protégé?"

I introduced Rose to Maisie.

"So you wish to be my new chamber-maid?" said Rose.

Maisie turned her eyes down. "Yes, Ma'am."

"What are your credentials? Have you done this work before?"

"No, Ma'am. But I am willing to give it my best effort."

"Well, that is honest at least." Rose raised an eyebrow at me. "Godfrey? Can you explain?"

"She is a quick learner, I can vouch for that. I daresay she can fill one of your maid's uniforms and pour drinks as well as anyone else. She works hard."

"Hm." Rose gave me a look that clearly said that if this had been anyone else, she'd be out of the door by now. She turned to Maisie. "Have you even opened a Champagne bottle before?"

Jocelyn would have explained how you shook it till the cork popped. Maisie just shook her head. Rose sighed, walked to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle, three Champagne flutes, and a towel. She showed Maisie how to remove the wire cage, draped the towel over the cork, and gently eased out the cork with a polite pop. The wine bubbled up in the glass till it almost overflowed then settled, the way Champagne does. Rose handed the glass to Maisie.

"You should at least know what luxury tastes like my dear. Go on."

Maisie tasted, and managed to keep her face straight. Rose took the glass from Maisie, emptied it into the ice bucket, handed it back. She showed her the label on the bottle.

"When one of our clients asks for a bottle of our finest Champagne, this is the wine you give them." She pulled out another bottle and handed it to Maisie. "Your turn dear. Keep the glass ready."

Maisie took the bottle, and managed to open it and pour a glass without spilling any wine. She put the glass in front of Rose, who gave it back to her and poured two more for us.

"Cin-cin, my dear."

Maisie bravely drank about half the glass, and managed not to burp.

"Can you taste the difference between this wine and the other?"

"No, Ma'am, I'm afraid not."

Rose laughed. "That bottle costs twenty two pounds at the local vintner's. This wine..." she emptied her glass. "You have just swallowed almost a hundred pounds worth of wine."

For the tiniest moment. Maisie disappeared and Jocelyn's eyes opened wide. She started to say something, but didn't. A moment later, Maisie was back.

"I... I can't pay for that ma'am!" Maisie put down her glass.

Rose put her hand on Jocelyn's shoulder. "And I won't ask you to, darling. This wine is not for clients, but for old friends."

"Won't people know the difference?"

"Usually, our guests are too... preoccupied. Most of them wouldn't care even if they did know. Those who do, ask for a specific bottle."

The door opened, and Ursula came in. Ursula was a large matronly woman in her early fifties. She was wearing a black dress, a white apron, and a white bonnet. She ignored Maisie and me completely, and turned to Rose.

"You wished to see me Ma'am?"

"Ursula. This is Maisie, your new maid. She needs a uniform and a little instruction in the ways of this place. When she is dressed, introduce her to the girls."

"As you wish." Ursula's eyes fell on Maisie like a heavy weight. "Follow me."

Maisie looked at me, I nodded, and they walked out. Rose and I sat down on a sofa, sipped her very expensive Champagne.

"How's Ilona?" I said.

"She's fine." Rose gave me that amused look I remembered so well. "Ask her yourself if you want. It is going to be busy tonight, but I'm sure she can fit you into her schedule."

"On a History professor's salary?"

"I'm sure we can come to some kind of arrangement."

"I could tell you everything about the last Franco-Prussian war."

"For a girl like Ilona? I'd want at least the French revolution as well."

Ilona Jacova had been young Wainwright's catch. She had been abducted from her home, shipped to England on a fish trawler, and made her escape at Ipswich harbour. With Mrs. Fern's help posing as a buyer, we managed to save all the girls on board and send them back to their homes. Ilona had walked wide-eyed into the Club and decided she liked it better there than back home. She would not be drawn on the details. So Mrs. Fern got a new employee out of the deal and Ilona got to stay in a place much, much better than the one she was heading for.

Rose refilled my glass. "So who is this girl? A new spy in training?"

I stared at the bubbles in my glass, nodded.

"Maisie Dors. I remember the name. It did not end well for her." She looked deep into my eyes, searching. "How are you, Godfrey? Really."

"I am no longer in the business of loud noises and rooftop chases. But it seems the job follows me even to Algernon University. We have had... problems."

"And this girl is part of that?"

"Oh no. No, she isn't. Not much more than anyone else at Algernon. She is just... talented, and she wants to join the Secret Service."

"Is she going to spy on our clientele? Discretion here is more than an advertising slogan, you understand."

"I am asking her to write a report. I will give it to you after I mark it. You'll like it. She has an original outlook on life. You have my word that it won't travel any further."

I was well aware what I was asking her. Club la Douce was a 'Gentleman's club.' Since offering services of an intimate nature is against the law, one paid for 'private consultations' with one of the girls. These girls, being the passionate kind of person, would often fall deeply, albeit temporarily, in love with their customers, and be unable to help themselves. Surely, he Law would not stand in he way of True Love? Well, of course the Law could easily say 'Bollocks to this. This is a whorehouse, and you are all under arrest.' But Mrs. Fern's clubs had never threatened the Queen's Peace, and while the Law might not, its individual servants recognised places like Club la Douce as a useful part of society, and looked away as long as they reasonably could. A young girl's report on the goings-on could disturb the delicate balance between the Word and the Spirit of the law.

On the other hand, I was also taking a risk. Bringing one of my young female students into a whorehouse might be frowned upon by the establishment. So this whole mission was an exercise in skirting the rules in the interest of Making the World a Better Place. It all came down to trust, and the mutual understanding that disturbing the status quo was in nobody's interest.

"You're not sure you want her to be a spy, are you?"

I swirled the Champagne in my glass, watched the bubbles form. "I may have to remind her that this world has its sharp edges."

Rose held up the bottle. I politely waved a hand. She poured the last into her glass. "The sooner she learns, the better."

 

---

 
Subject: Operation Rosebud After Action Report.

Agent: Jocelyn Vale

Date: ████████

Classification: Secret

 
This is a report on my mission code-named Operation Rosebud. Dr. Pike took me to the location, a Gentleman's club named Club la Douce, which is French for 'Gentle Club'. It has been explained to me that this is not a brothel, but a social club where members can enjoy the company of ladies for a fee. The fees start at five hundred pounds per evening, but can be as high as five thousand. This depends on the 'services' delivered. It should be made clear that these services do not include the things that happen in the beds, because that would be unlawful. That being said, the services do get more expensive as the unrelated activities become more eccentric.

 
I met the owner, a Mrs. Rose Fern, who let me taste her Champagne. The head chambermaid Ms. Ursula took me to a boudoir where she gave me a maid outfit to put on. These outfits are most unflattering, but that is done on purpose. The customers are only expected to choose the 'girls' and the maids are only there to serve food and drink. The girls are wearing some very nice dresses. I am not jealous.

Ms. Ursula introduced me to the rest of the staff. First, Henry the Major Domo, like a head butler. He is Ms. Ursula's boss, and oversees the girls as well, though they are all working for themselves and Mrs. Fern only provides them with a workplace and facilities. That arrangement is for legal reasons. In fact many of the arrangements at Club la Douce are there to do unlawful things in a legal manner. Most of the girls have worked at la Douce for a long time. They are quite different in their looks, so that every customer's tastes can be served.

Cassandra is blonde, and she could walk into Algernon University without anyone noticing, except she would probably be the prettiest girl in her class and every boy would be drooling over her. She showed me where to get tea and biscuits and where the loos were.

Next is Fiona, who is Irish, has red hair, green eyes, and freckles, and must therefore by law be 'feisty'. She also has to laugh whenever someone 'orders' her and a bottle of the house red, which was hilariously funny the first time she heard it.

Doris is older, and a bit larger than the others. She said that not all customers prefer the Elven beauties like Cassandra or Fiona, finding them intimidating if you believe it. Someone more homely suits them better, and Doris is there for them.

Strangely, there are also those who want to be intimidated. Evelyn wears an outfit of shining leather, and I need an outfit like that. I'd also need to grow a bit to fill it properly. She has a large collection of straps, cuffs, irons, also whips, floggers, paddles, and canes which I can tell you, Dr. Pike, work very well.

Geraldine is a brunette, sophisticated, with a believable French accent. She smokes cigarettes in one of those long stemmed pipes. She says she is the most exotic fille de joie (French for 'girl of pleasure') ever to come out of Suffolk.

Hedwig, by contrast, is genuinely foreign. She came from Prussia, and has long blonde hair, and one cannot fail to notice that she fills the traditional dress extremely well. With the way she carries herself, it is hard not to stare.

Finally, there's Ilona, who says she was abducted from Transylvania by slave-takers for the meat markets, which is a term for places much, much worse than this club. She was rescued by the Police assisted by Mrs. Fern, and decided that she preferred staying here to going back to the vampires. I'm sure that's not the whole story, but I didn't like to ask.

I started work at the door, taking customer's coats to the cloakroom. Club la Douce keeps a guest book, so they know who to charge and how much. I managed to copy most of the names from that book onto a piece of paper.

 
The first guest was ████████, a man at least fifty years old, who is a regular visitor. Henry took him into the lounge while I hung up his coat. He asked for Cassandra. By the time I arrived in the lounge, he was gone so I couldn't see what he consumed.

The next guests were two men in their early thirties named ████████ and ████████. They gave their coats to Henry, and asked me loudly where the whores were. I told them the ladies were in he lounge, and asked them to follow me. Henry seemed to like that. Mr. ████████ put his hand on my bottom, told me I was pretty enough to work as a whore, and asked if I was on the menu. I told him I was not, and Ursula swooped down and led them to a sofa. They went upstairs with Evelyn and Ilona. Hope she hurt them.

Next an older man named ████████ came in. He was wearing good clothes, but they were old. He looked friendly but a bit distracted. I took him to the lounge, and he sat down on a sofa with a 'thank you dear'. Doris came and sat down next to him. He had a few cups of tea, then went upstairs with her.

Some of the people who had come up were starting to come down again, and Ms. Ursula and I were called to tidy up. I got Cassandra's room, and she was sitting at a dressing table in a nightie counting out money. I couldn't see how much it was, but it was a lot. I stripped the bed, put new sheets on, trying not to look at Cassandra while she washed up and put her dress back on. I cleared away a half full bottle of the Finest Champagne, the glasses. Ursula came in, looked the place over, nodded, and dragged me out of the room.

"Thanks sweetie!" said Cassandra.

I went back to the lounge, where people were chatting and having drinks. The loud men had returned, and Mr. ████████ remembered me. He waved me over, ordered Champagne, and asked what my price would be. Mrs. Fern, who was sitting on a chaise lounge, stood up and told ████████ in no uncertain terms that I was here as a maid only, and suggested he choose one of the ladies whose affections were negotiable.

I spent the next half hour or so at the door until my admirers left, with a hearty 'No hard feelings love!' Then, just as Henry came back, the door rang, and I opened it on a lady named ████████. We looked at each other in a slightly puzzled way until Henry stepped in.

"Ah, Lady ████████! What a pleasure to see you again. Please make yourself comfortable and I will tell Fiona you have arrived."

"Thank you Henry," Lady ████████ gave me her coat, took Henry's arm and walked into the lounge. After a moment or two, Henry came back and ordered me into the lounge, where Lady ████████ was sitting, chatting with Fiona. She saw me and ordered a Bordeaux Rouge.

"The house Red, Ma'am?" I said.

"I try not to call it that, my dear."

"Thank ye kindly," said Fiona.

 
I spent the next few hours or so tidying up rooms, welcoming guests, serving drinks. Please find the full guest list attached, what I could get of it. By two o'clock, no more guests showed up, though Club la Douce officially didn't close till four. Ursula and I mopped the floors, cleared away the bottles and the glasses. We made a large pot of tea, and everyone sat on the sofas. Mrs. Fern herself poured me a mug of tea and sat down next to me. She asked me what I thought of her house.

It really wasn't what I thought it would be. We all know about the 'loose women' selling their virtue on the streets, till they get murdered by some man who doesn't want to pay, or die of syphilis. This Club seemed so civilised.

"Oh make no mistake," said Cassandra. "I've had five clients tonight, and made three thousand pounds. I've had evenings I made five thousand. Out there, some poor Fanny has to open her legs maybe two dozen times to Lord knows who, and won't make even a hundred. This is a good place. We can all tell you stories about the other kind."

"We do have our standards," said Mrs. Fern. "Plebeians have no money. We only cater to the rich."

"Even to women," I said, looking at Fiona. "Are you an invert?"

She shrugged. "Not really but I don't mind. I am not the one who needs pleasing. Lady ████████ likes what I do, and that's all. She likes to think I enjoy it as well, and why would I tell her otherwise? She is kind and generous. God knows we have clients who aren't."

"I think I have met a few tonight. He kept trying to get in with me, and told me I was pretty enough to be a whore."

Evelyn laughed. "Well, you are. Try on a few of our dresses sometime, and you won't believe what you see in the mirror."

"I don't think I could. Not to give offence, but I don't think I could bring myself to sell my body the way you do."

"As a point of order," said Mrs. Fern, "We do not sell our bodies. We perform services."

Geraldine got up, bent down over me, put her finger under my chin. "A young man, out alone in Paris, meets a beautiful French girl. As he lights her cigarette, their eyes meet, and they know... ils se sont trouvés au bord du chemin. They roam the streets, hand in hand, and all things are new to him, and all things are new to her for explaining them to him. Then they find a bed somewhere... et ils font l'amour jusqu'au matin. What man would not want a fantasy like that? Ce n'est pas notre corps qu'on vend..." She drew on her cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke, and waved her hand through it. "On vend des rêves." She grinned at me. "We don't sell our blimmin' bodies. We sell dreams."

 
The doorbell rang, and Henry put down his teacup with a sigh.

"Late arrival," he said. "There's always one. Game faces, Ladies."

In an instant, the room changed. Ursula gathered up the teacups and rolled them out on the trolley. I could see everyone change from themselves into someone who looked like them, but wasn't. Maiden, Mother, Femme Fatale, Well Endowed Prussian Wench, Vampire, Mistress... and Chambermaid. The bell had rung, and we were all ready to sell dreams.

The door opened, and in walked a disgusting old man named Godfrey Pike, one of the teachers at a local school, and obviously drunk. He stood still in the middle of the room.

"Where is my Gypsy Princess? Ilona? Where are you?"

"I am here, Professor." Ilona walked over and the so called Professor grabbed her and kissed her soundly on both cheeks. "How may I help you?"

He leered at her body in a most lecherous and disrespectful way. "You look... magical. I am cold and lonely. Warm me and keep me company for a few short moments, so I can face the world once more."

"Gladly, Professor." Ilona started towards the stairs, but the Professor turned to me. "Who is this tasty young thing? A new delight Mrs. Fern? Have her, her and none other, bring us a bottle of your finest Champagne! Perhaps she'll do us the honour of joining us for a glass?"

He followed Ilona upstairs, not missing the opportunity to look at her bottom. I looked at Ursula, who shrugged. She pulled out a bottle and two glasses, put them on a tray. She pointed a stern finger at me.

"Keep them company if you must, but get out before clothes start coming off. Ilona won't start while you are there. You are not allowed to drink with them. Even if you were of drinking age, our rules forbid it. If the customer requests it, tell him that. If he insists..." Ursula chuckled. "Ilona will probably ask him what he wants with a little mouse like you. Make yourself scarce as soon as possible."

Hedwig looked up the stairs. "I will take a bet that Herr Professor will fall asleep even before that."

Mrs. Fern stepped up to me, put her hand on my shoulder. "This is as close as you will get to one of our customers. Are you willing to do this? I'll bring up the wine myself if I have to."

I looked at Mrs. Fern, who obviously knew Dr Pike. "That won't be necessary. I'll go."

I took the tray and went upstairs.

 
When I walked into Ilona's room, she was gone, but Dr. Pike was still there. I put down the tray on a table. I had been ordered to stay in my role, and the mission was not yet over. He asked me my real name. I did not tell him, but unfortunately I could not keep up my role, and so the mission ended. Dr Pike and I finished our business with Mrs Fern, I said goodbye to her and the girls, and then we took the carriage back to University.

If this had been a real mission, I would have been caught and subjected to God knows what. I understand that I have much to learn. I have also learnt what the price of failure can be.

But most of all, this mission gave me a chance to learn about a business that most of us only know from stories. Stories where the women are not the heroes, but villains, victims, with no morals at all, and are so often consigned to the dustbins of society. Those stories are true, of course, but there are more stories than that. Club la Douce is not a place of evil. It allows people to make their dreams come true. I have seen there more kindness than in many other places. I don't know if I will ever go back there, but I am grateful to know of them, and I wish them, and the dreams they make, well.

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
It is unbelievable how dull Ipswich can be at night if one does not choose to entertain oneself in a place like the one where I had just dropped off Jocelyn. I spent it mostly in an all-night cafe, reading yesterday's newspapers, drinking tea. I know Jocelyn's taste for the strange and unusual. I am sure she was having the time of her life. People often wonder why we choose our jobs. Jobs where we lie in muddy ditches, in the rain and snow. Jobs where people earnestly try to kill us, sometimes in gruesome and slow ways, far away from home. You have to be there to know how much fun it actually is, to pit one's abilities against those of the Enemy, and win. To prevent terrible things from happening to the civilians who usually never know how close they have been to ruin. In our jobs, winning the game is the ultimate thrill.

But we don't always win. The price of losing is suffering and death. You, Quentin, and I are old spies. A rare subspecies of humanity. We have reached our age by luck, skill, caution, and in some cases the suffering of others. If there is one thing I must make Jocelyn understand, it is this. So many of us entered this world without knowing. I swear, Winston, I will make sure that Jocelyn enters it with her eyes open, and if she looks upon the filth and turns away, then so be it.

 
By three o'clock, I made my way to the Club. Henry let me in.

"Good evening Professor," he said. "Business or pleasure?"

"I am only here for Maisie," I said. "I won't be calling upon the services of your ladies."

Henry nodded. "Then I will waive the entrance fee."

"Thank you. Oh. I am going to pretend I am a customer."

"I am sure Madam will understand, Sir."

 
The role of slightly drunk patron to painted Jezebels comes worryingly natural to me, Winston. You will remember Miss Ilona Jacova, the contraband lady who stayed with Mrs. Fern. I solicited her company in a suitably grubby way. Read Jocelyn's report on this, it'll brighten your day. Revenge for what I did to her no doubt. Apart from Henry and Mrs. Fern, she is the only one who knows me. I dropped my pretense of drunkenness the moment we crossed the doorstep.

"Hello Mr. Pike," she said. "I haven't seen you in a long while. How is Agent Wainwright?"

"Hot, I should think. He is in Khartoum on business. I'll tell him you asked after him."

Ilona looked far away, remembering. "I did offer him a free sample, but he hasn't taken me up on it yet."

"Foolish boy," I said.

Ilona is a very attractive young lady. It wasn't that Wainwright didn't desire her. He did. But that Slavic beauty was now her business asset. She used it to conjure up dreams for her customers. Wainwright wasn't interested in a dream, not even as a gift of friendship. He wanted the real thing, and whether Ilona would have been interested in that, I still can't tell.

"How about you? Are you interested in a quick flutter maybe?" It was the best offer I've had in a long time, but she was joking, Winston. I assure you.

"I'm only here for Maisie."

"What's the matter with her?"

"I am trying to keep her from making the largest mistake in her life."

"Oh? Is she thinking of joining our Industry?"

"No, nothing like that. It's either to join the Secret Service, or not to join. Which it is, I cannot say. Could you be a dear and fetch me one of Evelyn's canes?"

Ilona's eyes narrowed. "Are you going to hurt her?"

"No more than I can help. I promise."

We looked into each other's eyes. She decided to trust me, walked out and returned with a nasty little riding crop.

"If you hurt her badly, I will give you the evil eye." She handed it to me. "And tell Mrs. Fern. Either way you are dead."

"I will keep that in mind. Thank you. Now please excuse us."

 
Maisie came in carrying a bottle of Finest Champagne. She looked round, noticed Ilona was missing.

"Sit down." I pulled up a chair for her. She sat.

"What is your name."

She looked up at me. "Maisie, Sir. Maisie Dors."

"Your real name."

"Sir? What do you mean?"

"I know your name is not Maisie Dors. What is your real name, and who are you working for?"

"I..." She turned pale. "I work for Mrs. Fern, Sir."

I stepped behind her, making her look up at me.

"Don't play games with me. Don't lie to me. This can go badly for you, or it can go very badly for you."

"I don't understand Sir. There must be some mistake. I am only here as a chambermaid... I need the money for my mother who's..."

"Then how do you explain this?"

I stepped in front of her, held out my hand as if to give her something. As she held out her hand to take it from me, I struck her palm hard with the riding crop. I didn't give her the time to react and bent down over her.

"What is your name."

Her eyes burnt, her teeth bared. "I am Maisie Dors!"

I looked at her for a moment, shaking with anger. I threw aside the riding crop, put my hands on her shoulders.

"It's all right Jocelyn. End of mission."

"What?!"

"End of mission. Here endeth the lesson."

She looked at her hand. An angry welt started to show across it.

"I'll call in Mrs. Fern, and then we can go home."

 
We met in Mrs. Fern's office. Mrs. Fern looked at Jocelyn over steepled fingers.

"How was your day, dear?"

"Very good Ma'am." Jocelyn looked at me. "For the most part."

"I've asked the girls. They say they like you, Maisie."

Jocelyn sighed. "That's not my real name."

"Hardly anyone here uses their real name, my dear. We're all actors on this red plush stage."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Mrs. Fern touched Jocelyn's hand. "I hope this experience taught you what you needed to know. If you ever need a job, please come see me. You're a good girl."

Jocelyn laughed quietly. "I play a good girl."

Mrs. Fern laughed with her. "Well if you're really a bad girl, definitely come and see me. In five years or so. For legal reasons."

"Evelyn wanted me to try on some of her dresses."

"Absolutely not. They are all blue and black. You need a red dress. Oh." Mrs. Fern reached into a drawer, pulled out an envelope, and gave it to Jocelyn. Jocelyn looked at it, back up at Mrs. Fern. "Open it dear. There should be fifty pounds in there. Count it."

"Fifty..." Jocelyn's eyes opened wide.

Mrs. Fern looked at Jocelyn's face and burst out laughing. "Godfrey called this a 'work experience' for you. Being paid is an essential part of the work experience." She touched Jocelyn's arm. "Work for love, darling, or work for money. Never ever work for nothing."

"Thank you." Jocelyn held her envelope to her chest.

"No, thank you. And do come back to visit sometime."

"I'm not sure I can..." I started.

"Oh I'm not talking to you, Godfrey. Your name is mud in this house. Caning innocent young girls? Shame on you."

"A price I have to pay." I got up. "We'll be on our way."

Mrs. Fern stood up, offered her cheek. I kissed it.

"Now begone. I have ill-gotten gains to swindle away."

 
And then, I took home a girl less innocent than she was before. She did well, Winston. I am starting to think that Jocelyn may be the right material for this horrible profession of ours.

 
God help her.

 
Yours,

Godfrey.

 

---

 
Jocelyn was quiet in the carriage back home. I touched her shoulder.

"You did well, Jocelyn."

She nodded.

"Up until the last moment."

"So this is a fail then?"

"Yes."

"I didn't hold out when you hit me."

"Nobody holds out under torture, that's an illusion. It's only a matter of time. The best, no the only way is not to get caught."

She looked at her hand. "Ow," she said.

"May nothing worse than that happen to you for the rest of your days."

"So how could I have passed?"

"My mission briefing said I would come and collect you after closing time, from Mrs. Fern's office. I broke protocol. There was absolutely no reason for me to embarrass myself the way I did, and I involved Ilona. On seeing that, you should have run."

"I thought I could trust you."

"And there is your problem. Trust no-one except yourself."

"That's..." She trailed off.

"It is. But there you have it."

She was quiet for a minute or so, then turned her eyes to me.

"She's dead, isn't she?"

I said nothing.

"Maisie Dors. The girl who played Maisie before me."

"Yes."

"She got caught."

I breathed in. "The first Maisie was working in a place much like Club la Douce in London. Her mission was to look for a specific person, and alert us when he showed up. Unbeknownst to us, some of the girls were stealing money from the customers. And then they were caught, some underworld figure. Maisie..." I had to stop a moment. "Was taken along with them. Everything you can imagine and worse was done to that poor girl. Everything. They tortured her to make her talk, and when she had nothing more to tell them, to amuse themselves. Weeks later, we found what was left of her floating in the Thames, in among the water lilies. She was..." I closed my eyes. "No longer recognisable as a human being."

"Did you ever get the ones who did it?"

I shook my head. "They were hardened criminals. They were executed by a rival gang over some deal or other going wrong."

"And you don't want that to happen to me."

"I don't. But if you go down this path, the statistics say that something bad will happen to you. I know two other spies as old as I am. Of the others, none died of old age."

Jocelyn leaned back, eyes closed. "Then why do it? If you're just going to end up being betrayed and tortured to death, why?"

"So others won't have to. Save one civilian life, and you are even. Save ten, a hundred, and you can be proud." I smiled at Jocelyn. "And as you have found out today, it is such tremendous fun. How many girls your age can say that they have spied on the customers in the most expensive brothel in Ipswich?" I raised a finger. "And the answer to that is none, not even you. Operational..."

"Secrecy," said Jocelyn.

"Precisely. There may be hope for you yet."

The carriage stopped at Algernon University and we got out. I took Jocelyn to her dorm. She turned round.

"I still want to do it, Doctor Pike. I'll just have to become as good as you."

"You're mad."

"No I'm not. I have that scrawled in red on a big knife somewhere."

 
Well.

How can you argue with that?

Philip Tennant: Council of the wizened

A sense of purpose - The wrath of Lady Itzel - The returning hunters - Unseen passengers - Claviceps Purpurea - Sample all the food

 

---

 

INTERVIEW WITH MR. RANDALL ZWINGE

 

Rina Prescott reporting

 

As you will remember, Mr. Randall Zwinge was due to hold a guest lecture last week on the subject of critical thinking and how to avoid falling for deceptions. I wrote to him apologising, and since he was still in Ipswich waiting for the airship back to the Americas, he kindly granted me an interview.

 

Mr. Zwinge is a ninety-years-old man with a long grey beard, wearing heavy-rimmed spectaces. He complimented me on my hair, and we sat down in the hotel lobby for tea and biscuits. To start with, he asked me one simple question: 'Have I fooled you yet?' I told him no, and he told me he had no idea what my hair looked like. He showed me his spectacles. They contained perfectly flat discs of glass. He then put on his real glasses, which resembled the bottom of a bottle. And, being a charmer, complimented me on my hair again. I asked him why he had gone through that pantomime, and he answered me with a large-eyed stare: 'To fool you, my dear. To demonstrate to you that everyone, yes everyone from a young child to the most seasoned scientist, will make assumptions. You saw my fake glasses, and made the perfectly reasonable assumption that I could see you perfectly. Quacks, rogues, cheats, and charlatans will use any assumptions you make.'

 

Mr. Zwinge asked me to write down a secret phrase on a piece of paper while he looked away, and fold it up so he could not possibly read it. He pressed the paper to his forehead, and told me without fail what I had written. How could he have done that, if not through mystical powers? Dear Readers, it was a trick! He even taught me how to do it, though I am sworn to silence.

 

I can tell you, that Mr. Zwinge is neither a Satanist, nor a sexual deviant. He is a driven man, and the sworn enemy of those who seek to deceive their fellow humans for reasons other than entertainment. He proudly proclaims himself to be a swindler, a cheat, a trickster, and a conjurer. The difference is that Mr. Zwinge admits to it, when many others do not.

 

I am sure all students would have enjoyed Mr. Zwinge's lecture, had he not been prevented from giving it. One cannot escape the notion that we know why this is. Do not be fooled, Dear Reader, unless you want to be.

 
It looks like your lunch date was more enjoyable than my dinner date. -- LD Mr. Zwinge was absolutely lovely. And who were you dining with? -- RP Mr. Dirk McDuff. Git. -- LD McDuff?! God, I hope you ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. -- RP I did, and he didn't care! You won't believe how much money he made selling his stupid predictions. -- LD But we exposed him as a fraud! How could he have sold so many before we did? -- RP He sold most of them AFTER we did! -- LD I weep for Humanity. -- RP

 

---

 
Wainwright had taken out Alexandra, Brenda, and Carl to go looking for Prometheus agents. With Sabine Moreau gone, and their base lying in ashes, along with the remains of the unfortunate Mrs. Najilah Moghadam, we didn't have much hope. There was no island base off the Cape of Good Hope. Even in her agony, Sabine Moreau had misled us. Margaret, with her playing cards and her shrewd mind, had got more reliable information out of her. A lesson worth learning.

The rest of us were on the bridge, drinking cups of tea. My xocolatl burnt my throat. I was running out of the mixture of chillies and spices that I had taken from Anctapolepl. I could of course use less of it to make it last longer, but I enjoyed the burn of it, and the characteristic flavour. I wasn't going to water it down, like a fading memory. I would make the last cup extra strong, and after that, there would be none left. I wasn't surprised to see Itzel leaning against the ailleron controls. I raised my cup to her, and she smiled. Andrew sat a little off, playing with the Hermes Detection Device. Miss Felicia had volunteered to clear away the sleeping facilities in Second Class, had found the book Sabine had been reading, and was now reading it herself. Fatin sat in a comfortable chair feeding Raage from a bowl of porridge. The little boy would be on solids soon. Wadcroft had found an old copy of the Gazette and had taken it to bits to share with Margaret, who was doing the crossword. It all looked very homely. Precisely as if a shadowy organisation was not trying to hunt us down and kill us.

Itzel came to my chair, leaned over me, not quite touching. "Why are you so glum, Philip Tennant?"

"We are not doing well," I looked up at her. If she would touch me, would I feel it?

"Twenty one down," said Margaret. "River in South America, six letters, blank-M-blank-Z-blank-blank. Philip?"

"Amazon," I said. "Did that really have you stumped?"

She wrote down the word, looked at me over her half moon glasses. "How aren't we doing well?"

"We are not making progress. We have been flying here there and everywhere, watching Prometheus hideouts go up in flames, we caught one agent and then we lost her. Our other passenger thanked us for our efforts by pointing a gun at my only daughter, and if Mr. Moghadam ever finds out she was on board, he will not be pleased with us at all. Still, we are not an inch nearer to defeating the Enemy. No progress."

"I would like to know when I can take Andrew home." Miss Felicia put down her book. "We are nowhere near as safe as I thought we would be."

"That wasn't the point," said Wadcroft. "We aren't running away from danger, quite the opposite. The plan was to draw fire away from Algernon. That, we have done."

I pulled out my pipe, a gesture of habit. Smoking underneath nearly four thousand pounds of hydrogen gas was strictly forbidden. I looked at it, decided I would look silly with it unlit in my mouth, put it away again. "We have to find Slate, and stop him. Prometheus and Slate are the same thing. Cut the head off the snake, and the body dies."

"Or two more grow," said Wadcroft. "Maybe we are better off leaving him alive."

Miss Felicia sneered. "Slate is an evil man. He has murdered, tortured, enslaved people, forced them to do his bidding, under inhuman conditions. He must be brought to justice."

Margaret got up, walked to the teapot and refilled her cup. "Find Slate, pick him up and hand him over to the Police with a note saying he's a very naughty boy. Easy!"

"Are you suggesting that we take matters into our own hands?"

Margaret turned round to Miss Felicia. "We're already doing that. We are hunting."

"Badly," I said. "What we have been doing up to now, isn't working. We need a better plan."

"Most wars aren't won by killing, but by economy." Margaret sat down. "The first party unable to keep their people fed, loses. All these bases, hideouts, must be costing Prometheus a lot of money. It must run out sometime."

"That depends on how rich Prometheus is," said Wadcroft. "If we can find out where that money comes from, we have a place to strike."

"Maybe he has a gold mine somewhere," I said. "Maybe he has found a golden statue like I have."

"Found? That is not how I would put it." Itzel moved in front of me, bent down. "I do not think Huitzilopochtli meant for you to use that as you have, Philip Tennant."

"I set your people free! What more do you want?"

Itzel sneered. "Are they free now, Philip? Do you want me to fly you back there and see? Do you think Huitzilopochtli, Tlaloc, Quetzalcoatl, all disappeared? They are still looking at Anctapolepl, but now their servants are unworthy. Drunks, perverts. Anctapolepl is now a place of dread."

"It was already a place of dread!" Itzel's robes had fallen open, showing a red open but unbleeding wound. "Look what they did to you!"

"They sent my tona to the gods carrying your words. What have you done?"

I looked at her, in her anger. "I gave them a chance to be free. That is all I could do."

"No, Philip Tennant, it is not all you could do. Nor is it all that you will do. Huitzilopochtli is not done with you. Your task is not complete." She turned round, took two steps, and vanished. I blinked only to find Wadcroft standing over me.

"I say old chap. Who are you talking to?"

I breathed slowly. "I think I need a little nap," I said.

 
I walked into my cabin. Sat down on my bed. Closed my eye, half expecting to see Itzel's angry face, but nothing happened. I felt extremely tired, and I lay down to look at the pictures of Iris and Itzel.

"I'm..." I started to say, but then I sat up, nearly cracking my skull on the top bunk. I stepped over to the picture, stared with my mouth open. The picture of Itzel had changed. She had turned, and was now looking away from me. I looked at Iris, but her picture looked exactly the same as it had when it came home from the artist. I felt nauseous. The world started to turn round me, and I could only just stagger to my bed and fall down on it. The next moment, I was asleep.

I woke up with a start at a knock on the door. I looked at the picture, but Itzel was still looking away.

"Just a moment!"

I went to the door, and opened it. It was Alexandra. She looked tired but otherwise all right.

"Nothing," she said. "We found nothing. No French girls with bullet wounds in any of the hospitals. No suspicious boats. No Prussians marching about the place. Not a thing. Except there's a French restaurant by the docks. They do a good lamb stew. But that's all the flipping Frogs we've seen today."

"The afternoon wasn't wholly wasted then."

"I suppose not." Alexandra leaned against the doorframe. "They've flown. Cape town is empty of Prometheuses."

"Right." I swayed on my feet.

Alexandra gave me a slightly worried look. "Are you alright Father?"

"Don't worry. A bit tired that's all. I blame old age."

I looked over my shoulder at the pictures on the wall. I almost asked Alexandra if she saw anything strange about them, but thought better of it.

"Who's on watch?"

"Wadcroft. He says we've been hunting all day and he'll take a turn for us."

"Very nice of him. Well, get some sleep then. We leave in the morning."

"Aye-aye Father." She yawned. "Good night."

I closed my cabin door, turned round, walked to the pictures. Itzel still didn't want anything to do with me. I was too tired to care. I took off my leg, changed into my pyjamas, and went to sleep.

 
That night, I was visited by many disturbing dreams. I was back in Anctapolepl, on the night before Itzel's departure. We were making love, but in the final moment, Itzel's stomach burst open. She reached inside, ripped out her beating heart and offered it to me to eat. I was in pain, but still I could not wake up. Then I sat at the side of the King, watching the row of sacrificial victims. Each and every one looked like Itzel. Each and every one screamed in the same way, and then her body came tumbling down the steps, onto the platform called the apetlatl, landing with dead eyes staring at me, accusing me of wasting her brave sacrifice. I turned to the King, asked, begged him to let me take her place, but the King shook his head, and then the store of gunpowder exploded beneath us and we were torn to shreds, somehow still alive even with our bodies broken and limbs thrown to the four winds. I woke up on the floor, having thrown myself out of bed in my violent convulsions, and still I could not quiet down. My limbs did not obey me and I kept thrashing round on the floor, knocking my head into the bed. There was a sudden blinding light, and I screamed.

"Enough! I give in! Great Huitzilopochtli, tell me what I must do and I will obey!"

The next moment, someone held my arms. Someone sat on my legs and thrust a piece of cloth between my teeth. A female voice screamed at me to calm down in a language that I didn't know, and after struggling for maybe another minute, I went suddenly completely limp.

"Father..."

I now recognised the language as English, the voice as that of my daughter. I looked up and saw my son holding my arms. I tried to move, and found I had pulled almost every muscle in my body. I groaned, and Carl let go of my arms. Alexandra got up, held a glass of water to my lips. I drank greedily.

"Thank you," I said, in a voice hoarse from screaming. "I'm alright now."

"No you bloody aren't!" said Alexandra. "What was that all about? You were shouting in some strange language."

I slowly and carefully sat up, and Carl helped me onto my bed. My children sat down on either side of me, and held me.

"It was only a bad dream," I said. "Only a bad dream."

Alexandra looked at me for a long few moments, clearly not believing a word of what I said, but unwilling to argue.

"Carl," she said, "You go back to Fatin. I'll sleep in the top bunk."

Carl nodded, touched my shoulder, left. Alexandra helped me back into my bed, pulled the blankets over me. She studied my face for a few moments.

"Father. Try to sleep. I'm here. I'll watch over you. In the morning, we'll sort this out."

I muttered a 'Thank you', and immediately fell into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

 

---

 
"Hallucinations. Convulsions." Margaret looked at me with a grim smile. "Have you lost any more limbs recently?"

"None to speak of."

"You haven't been feeling well lately, have you?"

"Air sickness. Admiral Nelson suffered from it."

"Any contractions of the uterus?"

I laughed. "I think I can safely say that I haven't had any of those. What are you implying?"

Wadcroft put his hand on my shoulder. "What Margaret is getting at, dear boy, is ergotism. You have ingested claviceps purpurea. Ergot fungus. It goes around among the enemies of Prometheus."

"Good Lord! I..." I wiped my forehead. "What do I have to expect?"

"Stop ingesting whatever contains it, and the symptoms will disappear. Things like gangrene and blistering only happen after prolonged exposure." Wadcroft looked round the table. "Something on board is poisoned. Does anyone else have these symptoms? Unreasonable fears? Itches? Seeing things that aren't there?"

Brenda raised her hand. "These last few months, I've had this weird dream that I'm on an airship with a bunch of Limeys."

"Sorry darling," said Margaret. "There's no cure for that."

"I'm doomed. Doomed!"

"We all are unless we find what it is," said Wadcroft. "It has to be something only our Captain consumes."

There was a short silence. Fatin stirred. "The bitter water."

"Xocolatl," I said.

"That is something that only you can get down your gullit," said Alexandra.

"I tried some," said Fatin. "If water tastes like that in my tribe, you find a new place to camp."

"But I boil those herbs," I said.

"Doesn't matter for ergot," said Wadcroft. "It's impervious. If someone can fetch me some of that horrible stuff, I will fetch a microscope and we can see."

Wadcroft went to the library and came back with a wooden case and issue 771 of Bulletin de la Société botanique de France. He set up the microscope, put some of my precious herbs onto a piece of glass, peered through the eyepiece. He waved Margaret over, and she looked as well.

"Claviceps..." she said.

"Purpurea," said Wadcroft. "I prescribe bedrest and to drink lots of fluids."

"Thank goodness you found it," said Miss Felicia.

"We've found one infection," said Margaret. "Now we get to sample all the food!"

 

---

 
Margaret, Wadcroft, and the children were still busy going through our food supplies, checking for signs of tampering and ergot fungus. So far they had come up with nothing. I was at the helm setting course for Khartoum and our only working Hermes device apart from the one built by the Wizard Sparker in Ipswich.

Brenda was sitting in the captain's chair, feet up on the bridge railing, Stranger the cat in her lap, watching me just in case I was about to go mad and send Lady I crashing into the ground. She waved her hand at me.

"Captain? How many ladies on the bridge with you?"

"How do I know you are real?"

"Fair point. If a ghost lady would kick you in the bollocks, would you feel it?"

"If a real lady were to fill up my tea mug, I could drink it."

Brenda dropped her legs down, went over to the teapot, refilled my mug. I looked at it.

"Tea with milk and you just said 'bollocks'. You're going native."

"If I start wearing bowler hats, somebody shoot me."

"Somebody shoot me what?"

"Somebody shoot me please."

I put down my mug and touched Brenda's heavily illustrated shoulder. She felt reassuringly real. The idea of her being some sort of apparition was ridiculous.

"To answer your question, one woman. And she ain't no kind of lady."

Brenda gave me a grin. "Damn straight I ain't."

 
Lady Itzel came to me that night, in a bona fide dream. She sat down on my bed, looking at me with a soft gentle light in her eyes.

"You have a long journey ahead," she said. "Sometimes we must take the long or painful way so we arrive at our destination knowing what we need."

"I have stopped drinking the bitter water," I said. "I will miss you."

"Oh Philip. Do you really think I am just in your head? A product of the poison your enemies have given you? Do not forget who guides your steps, and who it is that I serve. I will not abandon you."

And then she touched me, and her hand felt warm and real, and try as I might, I could not tell whether it was ergot-induced hallucination, my own wishes, a dream, or even reality. She got up, and left without a sound.

Margaret Enderby: Pining for the Orwell

Retracing our steps - Mind games - A sense of direction - Worn out our welcome - Farther and farther away.

 

---

 

IN DEFENCE OF THE GIRLS OF PLEASURE

 

Jocelyn Vale reporting

 

Few parents would wish their daughters to grow up to become a prostitute. Very few girls themselves would want to, for perfectly good reasons. Still, these Ladies of Pleasure fulfill a useful purpose in society, providing comfort to those in need of it. Operating on the knife edge of the Law, these women have a dangerous life. Both the officers of the Law, and their clients, put them at risk of life and limb. They deserve more respect than they are given.

 

The word 'Prostitute' comes from the Latin 'Prostitutus', meaning 'to cause to stand before'. It is for this reason that many of the actual prostitutes do not like this term. They are not being put. They put themselves. A number of euphemisms are used: Lady of the Night, Girl or Woman of Pleasure, and some even use the term 'Whore' as a nom-de-guerre.

 

There are few professions about which more unfounded preconceptions exist. The word 'Whore' conjures up images of filthy women roaming the streets or frequenting low taverns, offering their bodies for a few pennies. This, it is no use denying, has a basis in reality. For a woman working on the streets alone, every transaction holds a risk. They do not enjoy the same protection as you or I, and are at risk of arrest from the Law, and violence from the law-breakers.

 

But there are also those who work in much more sophisticated places, even here in Ipswich. The lush and detailed furnishing of these places is only mirrored by the detailed legal furnishings. There are no 'customers', there are 'club members'. The members do not pay for sexual acts, they pay for the time spent in 'consultation' with their lady of choice, and whatever else happens is no official part of the proceedings. These are warm, welcoming places, and the ladies who work there are among the most caring and friendly people one could hope to meet. There will always be an aura of impropriety, of naughtiness about the whole business. The ladies wouldn't want it any other way. But it is also a place where the secret dreams of men and even women can be made to come true.

 
Jocelyn!! We can't print this! I want to publish another paper after this one! -- LD I am inhumanly curious to know where you found this, but on the other hand, I'm not sure I want to know. -- RP I must have read it somewhere. -- JV Read it *where*? -- RP The restricted area of the library. They must have misfiled this book. I returned it yesterday. -- JV Ugh! More 'forbidden knowledge.' That is really starting to annoy me. -- LD

 

---

 
It was late in the evening when Lady I was sailing back North again, heading back for Khartoum, with Philip at the helm, watched over by Carl. The plan was to return Wainwright to his beloved mosque, where at least we had a working Hermes device. Whether it was known that the late Mrs. Moghadam had been on board before she died was an important question. If Wainwright would just turn up on Mr. Moghadam's doorstep with a cheery 'Hello again,' the Moghadams might just chuck him in a little room for some private conversation. To prevent that from happening, he would send word to Ahmad Moghadam to meet him in some tea house or other where Carl and Brenda would lurk in the shadows, and if emotions were to flare, they would grab Wainwright by the scruff of his neck, and run as fast as their little legs could carry them, with Alexandra up on high spoiling the day of any pursuers with her rifle. This plan had many, many amusing ways to end in tears before bedtime. Of spies and men, the best laid plans oft gang agley.

Wainwright was at the important job of feeding Raage porridge. International relations were starting to tell on him, but there is something soothing about spooning delicious food into a young boy and watching him enjoy it.

Mummy was wiping the floor with Alan on the Kalah board. Felicia was on her third Shakespeare, and Andrew was playing with the Hermes device and a compass. Alexandra and Brenda were in the hold, practicing martial arts. Alexandra was determined not to lose to Sabine Moreau again, and she trusted Brenda more than Carl not to go easy on her. And I was at the same time writing my journal and providing a soft space for Stranger the ship's cat to sleep on.

"I resign," said Alan. There was a sad small heap of pebbles on his side of the game board. "You are too good at this, Ma'am."

Fatin looked no more smug than absolutely necessary. "Is there anyone else who wants to play?"

Felicia looked up from her book. "Lambs to the slaughter. Maybe Andrew is willing to give you a game. Andrew? Come and have a look at this."

Andrew turned off the Device, stepped over. Fatin grinned at him and put four pebbles in each of the cups. Andrew sat down opposite her and looked at the board. Fatin pointed.

"That is your side, this is mine. What you do is take the stones from one of your cups, and sow them like this." She dropped a pebble in each cup to the left. "Now when I land in my well, then I can go again. And if I land in an empty cup on my side, then I get all the stones from your cup there and my one. You only put stones in your own well." She grinned, white teeth shining in her brown face. "And when you have no more stones in your cups, I get all the ones that are still in my cups, and then I win because I'll have more stones in my well. Easy, no?"

Fatin returned all the pebbles to their place. Andrew stared at the board for a few moments, closed his eyes. For at least a minute, nothing happened.

"I'll let you start," said Fatin. "When you are ready."

Andrew frowned. "But then, I'll win."

"No you won't," said Fatin.

"You are mistaken," said Andrew. "The player who starts can always win."

Felicia stood next to him, hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps Mrs. Tennant would like you to demonstrate."

Andrew reached out with his slab-like hand and picked up four pebbles. He carefully dropped them in the other cups, then because he ended up in his well, he picked up another cupful. Fatin did the same. They moved back and forth a few times.

Andrew frowned, pointed. "That is not the optimal move."

Fatin raised an eyebrow. "Do you think you know this game better than I do?"

"If you had moved the second heap, you would have finished on an empty cup, and you could have..."

"You play your stones, and I will play mine."

Andrew looked at Felicia, who shrugged. "Go on."

He thought a moment, picked up a pile of stones, ended up on an empty, dropped Fatin's stones in his well. Fatin frowned, counted pebbles. Her hand hovered over one cup, then another. She chose one, ended up in one of Andrew's empties. Andrew moved the second last pebble into his pit. He had only one pebble left, which he moved opposite Fatin's, earning him six more pebbles. Fatin started to count.

"I win by five," said Andrew. If you had made the move I suggested, I would have won by only two."

Fatin finished counting. Andrew was right. Of course he was.

Fatin sneered. "You are lucky."

"You are mistaken. There is no element of chance like in Backgammon."

Fatin's eyes narrowed. "Very well. My turn to start."

 
About an hour later, Brenda came walking in, barefoot, sleeveless shirt drenched.

"That girl has a lot of leftover anger," she said. "If I'd talked French at her, she'd have killed me."

"Really?" said Felicia.

"No. Cause she's not as good as me." Brenda looked at the door. "She's still afraid of someone kicking her in the knees. That damn frog girl knew it."

"I suppose that's only to be expected." Felicia shuddered. "After what happened to her."

"Well, time for her to snap out of that if she wants to win her next fight with the little bitch. Until then, I'm here to slap her face every time she drops her hands when I look at her legs. But I let her have the bath. Because I'm nice."

She made for her cabin, ran her hand through Andrew's hair in passing. He looked up, disturbed, and smoothed it down again. Felicia gave her a look that would have ignited lesser women. She walked into her cabin, to come out a few minutes later, towelling her hair.

"At least what it looks like is that Alexandra put a bullet or two in her before she got away. Bullets beat bare hands any day of the week."

"We shouldn't have let her escape," said Felicia. "I wonder where she went."

Alexandra came walking in. "Trotted back to Slate like a good little poodle. Wherever he is."

"Sadly," said Alan, "With those Hermes devices, he could be anywhere on Earth. We haven't the foggiest idea. Where would he be?"

Andrew looked up from his game with Fatin. "We do not know the exact location, but I can give you an estimate accurate within a radius of fifty kilometres."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I measured the direction of his transmissions at Cape Town, and again an hour ago. From this we can take a cross-bearing and determine his location."

Wadcroft looked like he was going to swallow his moustache. "It works over distances like that? You know where he is? Why didn't you say?"

"I am not to volunteer information without someone asking."

Felicia gave Alan a sad look. "He is right. It's another rule for his peace and quiet." She looked at Fatin. "People don't seem to like accurate information."

"Hmph," said Fatin.

Alexandra moved next to Andrew. "Could you point out the location on a map?"

"Yes."

"Well people, what are we waiting for? To the bridge!"

 
We stormed the bridge in proper piratical fashion and made for the map table. We were currently on a map of Africa. Andrew picked up a pencil and marked Cape town at thirty four South by eighteen East. From this, he drew a bearing at two hundred and seventy degrees on the compass. Next, he marked our current location at thirteen North by thirty two East. The bearing here came to two hundred and sixty eight degrees.

"We'll need a bigger map," said Philip and pulled out the world map."Looks like somewhere in the Atlantic ocean."

"He's in Atlantis," I said. "That sounds just like the place where he would set up camp. Jammy bastard."

"Wish he were," said Alan. "I could do with him being in a place that doesn't exist."

Andrew bent over the world map, concentrated, then drew two curves. They met, not in the Atlantic Ocean, but in South America, just north of the Amazon river.

Philip looked at the place.

We could all see him turn pale, lean on the map table. His leg gave, and he would have fallen to the ground if Carl and Alexandra hadn't leapt to his side and held him up. They put him in the navigator's chair. Felicia came up with a glass of water.

"I know where they are. I know exactly where they are."

"Easy Father." Alexandra ran her hand over his shoulder. "Where do you think they are?"

Philip closed his eye, took a few deep breaths. He turned his face West.

 
"Anctapolepl."

 

---

 
As we were all fussing over poor Philip, I noticed that Lady I was swinging back and forth with small course changes. Fatin, who had taken the wheel when Carl leapt to Philip's aid, was looking outside. She turned the wheel and Lady I came about.

"Captain Philip?" Fatin pointed. "There is another airship out there. I try to get out of the way, but they keep coming at us."

Philip got up and walked to the telescope. "It's a Khartoum airship."

"Maybe they want to talk." Carl stepped over to the other telescope.

"Let's ask what they want," said Philip. He lit the Aldis light, and flashed out a message.

AIRSHIP LADY I MASTER TO KHARTOUM AIRSHIP GREETING. HOW MAY WE HELP YOU?

There was no response, but the airship seemed to speed up.

"Head for them, Fatin. Slow ahead." Philip sent out another message, which went ignored like the first one. "Who taught them their manners, I wonder."

Carl looked up from his telescope, an incredulous expression on his face. "Father! Their guns are moving! They're preparing to fire!"

"Fatin! Up! Hard to port!" Philip leapt for his Captain's chair. "Get out of range of their guns!"

 
There was a flash from their guns, the whistle of shells flying by, and then the bang. Fatin pulled a handle and the sound of the propellers changed. Carl ran behind her to turn the wheels that fed more coal into the boilers. The deck vibrated as Lady I's engines pushed her up, up and over the Khartoum airship so their cannons couldn't reach us.

"Alexandra! To the aft guns. Hold fire until I tell you. Carl, Brenda, Everybody else! Go round the ship and turn off all the lights! Make us dark!" Philip pointed at Andrew. "You. Turn on the search light, shine as much light as you can onto their bridge."

"They will not be able to see," said Andrew.

"That's what we want," said Philip.

The more energetic of us ran out to put out every light on board, while Alan and I manned the telescopes. Fatin inflated the envelopes, and Lady I shot up. Airships like the ones pursuing us are designed to rain death from above. Their cannons are attached to the gondolas, and they can't fire up without popping their own balloons. Still, their larger envelopes allow hem to rise higher than we could. Eventually, they would rise above us, and we would be easy pickings.

Andrew had improved the search light. It was now much brighter, and through a set of mirrors allowed one to see from the bridge where it was shining. He kept the light focused on their bridge, turning their night into day. Carl came back.

"All lights out, Father. Brenda's on the aft guns now, Alexandra is fetching her rifle and going up top."

"Good." Philip turned his eye forward. "Fatin, dive to a hundred feet, lower if you dare. Head West. Full steam ahead. Andrew, on my mark, turn off the search light."

Fatin turned the wheels that pumped the lifting gas back from the envelopes into the storage tanks. She adjusted the aillerons, pointing Lady I nose to the ground. The desert sands filled up our front windows, rushed towards us with the screaming of the winds round us. My heart rushed as I held on to the telescope mount. All this time, I had thought of our ship as a comfortable home in the clouds. A nice way to travel. Now, with Andrew's engines roaring, gas screaming through the pipes, Fatin speaking to her friends Iris and Itzel, Lady I showed herself for what she was: a hunter. Her makers had built her to move fast, and bring death and destruction to the unfortunates doomed to walk the Earth beneath her. And then scarper before folks could shoot at us.

At the final moment, Fatin pulled back on the aillerons, and Lady I levelled out. I held on tight as I watched the sand dunes rush past. I looked round to the wheel. Fatin was completely and utterly one with our airship, not needing to look at any of the instruments, but feeling in her bones what Iris and Itzel needed. We were so low that she had to steer past sand dunes, either over them or round them.

On the ground, we saw the bright circles of light coming from the enemy's searchlights, moving round without finding us. The rapport of Alexandra's rifle was almost lost in the noise. She fired one round, then another, and another. The lights disappeared, leaving us in the dark. On we stormed, faster than any other craft, until after thirty minutes Alexandra came back to the bridge and reported that the Khartoum airship was no longer in sight.

"Thank you." Philip calmly walked up to Fatin, put his hand on her shoulder. "Slow down my dear. New course North-west. I regret to say that our destination is no longer Khartoum. Instead, we'll make for..." He shook his head.

"Hooptyfloop," I said. "Where else?"

"We can't make that without taking on coal. We make for Casablanca, Morocco first. Give me a moment, Fatin, and I'll give you a proper course."

"Aye-aye Captain." Fatin stood upright, gently stroking the controls, eyes burning with the sheer rush of her flight. She spoke a few words I couldn't understand, though I caught the names of Itzel and Iris.

An hour later, we were back at Lady I's preferred altitude, at a leisurely trot, heading for Morocco.

 

---

 
We old folks need our sleep, so when there was nothing more for us to do, we turned in. Felicia was in Andrew's cabin to see if he might need something, and I tried to calm my nerves. With a little light reading I hasten to add. I may be partial to the odd drop of G and T now and then, but I'll never again try to drown my sorrow. It never works. Now that the immediate danger had passed, I was having trouble settling down. People had tried to shoot us down. I'm not stupid. I knew we were at war, but knowing that we had enemies is one thing. Hearing the shells fly round you, and realising that you owe your life to them not shooting straight? That is quite another. To make things worse, we now had more enemies than we started with. An airship sent by the Governor of Khartoum had fired its guns at us, tried to kill us. This was official business! A country wanted us dead.

I had just turned the light low, when the door opened and Felicia came in. She sat down on her bed, hands on her knees, head bowed. Her breath came in ragged gasps. She was crying.

"Felicia? Are you alright dear?"

In the blink of an eye, she sat upright, her face straight but wet with tears, her voice steady.

"Of course I am. Well, I'll be glad to get some sleep after today's excitement, wouldn't you agree?"

I got out of bed, sat down next to her. She looked at me with a can-I-help-you kind of face. I put my arms round her, pulled her close. She struggled a bit, don't be silly, then leaned into me. I stroked her hair, said nothing. She began to shake as I held her. I let her soak my nightgown for a while.

"It'll be fine." I wished I believed it. "Everything will be alright."

"I'm so scared." Her eyes were red. "I... We almost died today. And that horrible woman almost murdered Miss Alexandra. And Mrs. Moghadam... And Andrew... And Miss Lee was hurt... Everything! I am not made for this kind of thing."

I gently rocked her, muttering soothing words.

"I just want it to be over." She screwed her eyes shut. "And then I think of how it could end... How it's likely to end."

"Now don't be silly, Felicia Sunderland. Captain Tennant won't let anything bad happen to you. We aren't helpless, you know?"

"Of..." She pulled out a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, blew her nose. "Of course not. It's not that I don't trust him. It's just..."

"I know." I put my hands on her shoulders. "We will be all right."

Felicia closed her eyes a moment, then looked at me. She gave me a brave smile. "Yes we will. It'll take more than an international organisation of evildoers to beat us."

"That's the spirit! Now let's get you into bed. It'll all be better in the morning."

She slipped under the covers, and just as I turned away to do the same, I felt her hand on my arm.

"Thank you, Margaret."

"Good night, Felicia."

I turned down the light and got under the covers. I stared at the wall for a while.

 
Who do I go to for hugs and comfort?

Godfrey Pike: Ambition

Wainwright reports - Listening in - A new agent - Bring me the head of Tennant - There and back again - Fresh brains

 

---

 

FIRST LAMBS AT MR. GILES' FARM

 

Linda Davenport reporting

 

Dear Readers, Spring is coming. Your reporter received a message from Mr. Giles, to come and watch the miracle of birth in his stables. One of his ewes, named Barbara, was about to give birth. Having obtained permission from Chancellor Monroe, your reporter spent the night in the warm stable watching a very large ewe go into labour and in due course give birth to two healthy lambs. These lambs are a bit early in the year, but Mr. Giles told me he has had ewes lambing as early as January.

 

Since the veterinary and Mr. Giles had the situation well in hand, your reporter sat a little way away, with her sketchbook, drawing pictures. It's a marvel that these little beasts can get to their feet and even walk just moments after they are born. We humans take years to do that.

 

We at the Clarion extend our best wishes to the young mother Barbara and her young children Snowy and Shadow.

 
Aww, adorable! -- RP After all this oppression, food riots, and human filth, I needed something nice and wholesome and cute and fluffy. -- LD And *tasty*! -- JV Jocelyn... Behave! -- RP

 

---

 
From Agent Wainwright, Casablanca Morocco, 11:30pm March 5 ____

To Dr. Pike, Algernon University.

Standard encryption applied.

 
Lady I attacked by Khartoum airforce, no casualties, no damage. Relations deteriorated to hostile. Approach only with highest caution.

En route from Paris Alexandra and Carl Tennant captured Sabine Moreau, agent of Prometheus, stowed away on board, who was then interrogated by James Riley and revealed location of Prometheus in Cape Town. Moreau treated for injuries to shoulders. James Riley asked to leave Lady I by Captain. Riley no longer considered an ally, though not actively hostile.

On leaving, were joined on board by Mrs. Najilah Moghadam, who feared for her life as a result of allegations of infidelity. On arrival at Cape town, she distracted Ms. Moreau's guard and assisted her escape. During search, Miss Alexandra Tennant captured by Ms. Moreau and Mrs. Moghadam. Miss Tennant escaped, shooting and killing Mrs. Moghadam and wounding Ms. Moreau. Cape Town base destroyed by Slate using Hermes self destruct with remains of Mrs. Moghadam inside.

Using Hermes detection device, have determined location of Prometheus base North of Amazon in the Mulata area. Captain speculates base in lost city of Anctapolepl, where he lived for a year. Lady I now taking on fuel and supplies to go there. Wadcroft, Enderby, Sunderland, Parsons, and myself as guard to disembark as fighting anticipated. Still on board, Captain Philip, Carl, Alexandra, Fatin, and Raage Tennant, also Miss Brenda Lee. Wishing them Godspeed.

Will report upon return to England, travelling incognito.

 
Yours,

Wainwright

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
Please find included a message from young Wainwright, of a deeply troubling nature. I am somewhat puzzled. What would move the Khartoum airforce to try and shoot down English airships? Perhaps absconding with Bouzid Moghadam's daughter in law may have something to do with it. Not to mention killing her. I have many questions. Did they know Mrs. M was no longer on board? Did they care? Did they know she was dead? How would they know, a whole continent away, and the Hermes devices destroyed? Are all Hermes devices even destroyed?

We must assume that Miss Moreau informed Slate that she had recruited a new minion. After Miss Tennant helpfully informing him that she was still alive, and presumably therefore her enemies were not, Slate may well have passed on the sad news to the Moghadams.

I think, on reflection, that Captain Tennant's decision to put an ocean between them and Khartoum is a sound one, regardless of whether he finds anything in South America.

In summary, now we have lost what little rapport we had with Khartoum and maybe even Arkham as well. Not a result to write home about, I'm afraid.

 
I have had a visit from Professor Sparker, who got me to climb all the way up the University tower, where one of our Nipponese exchange students is working... well, I suppose one could call it a "listening post". The place is packed with unworldly apparatus, and as soon as one of Slate's devices gives a peep, young Mr. Yagi turns a rotary antenna, and he can get a surprisingly accurate bearing on the speaking station. It is clear that there are more bases around the world than we thought, and even with a fleet of airships, we cannot find and destroy them all. I felt I had to ask Mr. Yagi if he wasn't getting bored all alone up here, but he finds the experience "meditative." Well, we mustn't stand between a man and his spiritual growth, and we went all the way down the two hundred steps. Almost as an afterthought, Sparker told me that he has found stations that don't seem to belong to Prometheus. They don't use the same "signalling frequencies" and "protocols" to do what they need to do. Or maybe they do belong to Slate, and they are simply different types of Hermes device. Not even Sparker can understand what they are saying, but he is working on it.

 
I had a lovely afternoon at the range today. Not normally something to bother you with, but I have a reason. Most of the original Rifle Club members were there. Miss Carrie StJohn, now fully recovered from her wrist injury, was using one of the Brownings, and shaking the cobwebs from her form. Next to her were Rina and Linda, intrepid reporters. They were using the Lee-Enfields. Miss Christa Whelan was instructing a boy new to the club. Jocelyn, having just finished a set, was making tea. Rather than just shouting over the din, as she used to, she brought everybody a mug, including me. I recognised the look in her eyes.

"Tea, Sir?"

"Yes please, thank you Maisie."

Jocelyn leaned against the fence next to me. "I've been thinking about her a lot. She was really brave, but then again she didn't have a choice. There wasn't anything she could do to be a coward and stop..." Jocelyn looked away. "What was happening. She didn't sacrifice anything, it was taken from her. Done to her."

Memories flooded back. 'Maisie' didn't look anything like Jocelyn. She was utterly unremarkable, not especially ugly or pretty. One had to know her better to appreciate what she had to give. 'Maisie' could never have carried off the vampire act Jocelyn had back in Felixstowe. She had volunteered for that fated surveillance mission, but it hadn't looked like an especially dangerous one. Pour drinks and warn us if a certain person shows up. She was perfect for that. Quiet. Unmemorable. Invisible. It hadn't been especially brave of her to put herself forward. Truthfully, it had been a dull job despite being in a brothel.

Two of the workers at the place were caught stealing, and they had unwisely chosen a crime lord from out of town as their mark. Maisie was caught in the confusion. We don't know how she held up. How she endured the days of torture and agony. Whatever courage she had shown was forever hidden away in the dark. There was no sense to it, no reason. A complete and utter waste of a gentle, kind soul. The man she was supposed to look out for was later found dead in a wheat field in a different part of the country. 'Maisie Dors' had never known what the future held. This was not supposed to have happened to her. The same thing is most definitely not supposed to happen to Jocelyn.

But it might.

I could tell her over and over again. I have read the autopsy report. The long list of injuries and what the likely cause was. I could make Jocelyn lose her lunch, destroy her faith in Humanity, give her life long nightmares, but still she would not know it just from being told. Nobody does.

I looked her over. She noticed, smiled at me, touched my arm.

"I'm volunteering, Dr. Pike. This is what I want to do."

"I have said this before, and I will say it again. You need to have your head seen to."

"If that's what it takes, that's what I'll do. Though Dr. Schmidt seems to have gone a bit funny in the head himself."

"I will have to establish a Chair of Espionage here. I must have a word with Malcolm."

"Oh but you can't call it that! Everybody in there would be a double agent. You'd have to call it..." She thought a moment. "The H.P. Lovecraft Holiday Fun Club."

She looked at me, eyes shining. I ask you, Winston. How often does any teacher meet a student so uncompromisingly enthusiastic?

"I think that one already exists. The Chair of Economical Alethiology?"

"Oo! Good one!"

I am convinced, Winston. Miss Jocelyn Vale will be going to the ball, and may Fate be merciful on her. I raised one last finger.

"I want a letter from your parents, saying they approve."

"Not a problem."

 
The letter from Mr. and Mrs. Vale is on my desk now. Mr. Vale, as it turns out, served in the Special Forces, and he is proud that his daughter will serve her country in some way. It seems we have a new recruit. I am not willing to have Jocelyn disappear into the grinder of our normal recruitment process. I want to keep an eye on her, Winston. I'm sure you will understand. I think I can get her up to the first year myself if you send me the latest Manuals. What she does after that is up to her.

Also, I want to meet the parents.

 
Yours,

Doctor-of-economical-alethiology Pike.

 

---

 
Bouzid Moghadam, Governor of Khartoum.

To whom it may concern,

 
This is to inform you that Captain Philip Tennant of the airship Lady I, registration number _, and his crew, have made themselves guilty of the most heinous crimes of abduction, murder, and armed attacks upon the Khartoum Airfleet vessel Quzah.

 
These are the facts. These persons have abducted Mrs. Najilah Moghadam, and another woman of French nationality with the intent of selling them as prostitutes to a South African organisation. We have evidence that they were subjected to the most depraved forms of torture on board the Airship Lady I. By the grace of Allah, the two women were able to escape their tormentors, but to their great misfortune, Mrs. Moghadam was recaptured and brutally murdered. Her companion tried to rescue her, but was also shot, and is now in the hands of Allah in one of our hospitals.

 
So that they may be made to answer for their crimes, we hereby demand that the persons guilty of these crimes be delivered into the hands of the Khartoum Judiciary for trial. Their names are:

 
Philip Tennant (Captain)

Carl Tennant

Alexandra Tennant

Brenda Lee

James T. Riley

 
In addition, we demand that the following persons be made available for questioning:

 
Prof. Dr. Alan Wadcroft

Prof. Dr. Margaret Enderby

Miss Felicia Sunderland

Mr. Andrew Parsons.

Fatin Tennant

 
We do not believe they were directly involved, but they may be summoned as witnesses. We trust that this matter will soon be settled, and that by the swift action of your authorities, your honour will remain unblemished.

 
Signed,

Bouzid Moghadam

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
Could you please have the proper authorities inform Mr. Moghadam that Captain Philip Tennant and his airship are nowhere to be found within the jurisdiction of Her Majesty?

I believe that the courageous young French woman is none other than Sabine Moreau, and that she gave a performance before the authorities worthy of a grand applause at the Globe. I'm sure you'll agree that our own intelligence indicates that Mrs. Moghadam boarded Lady I of her own volition, and that Miss Tennant acted in self-defence.

Where our University faculty members are now, I don't know, but you'll agree that if they should find themselves within these walls, that is where they stay. We both know more about the interrogation practices of the Sudanese than we want to.

Damn it, Winston. We were doing so well, and now we are well and truly back at the beginning, maybe even worse. We need more diplomatic firepower to solve this. I think my own amateurish skills aren't up to the job.

All in all, I wish the late Mrs. Moghadam had found a better way of relieving her boredom than taking a lover and running away from home. While weaving tapestries may not be as exciting as international travel, it rarely gets one shot. I'm sure you can make a shrewd guess as to who Ms. Moreau's guard was, and how he was distracted. I will be sure to ask Wainwright when I see him just to watch him squirm.

 
Yours,

Pike

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
The lost sheep have been returned to the flock. I was woken by three ominous knocks on the door. It was Head Porter Barker and he informed me that Miss Sunderland, Enderby, Wadcroft, Parsons, and Wainwright have been restored to us. They were waiting for me in the faculty break room. I quickly made myself presentable and went to meet them. Miss Sunderland was away putting Parsons to bed, but the others were there nursing cups of Tetley's.

"Hail the conquering heroes," I said. "What news from the East?"

"We got shot at by a Khartoum airship," said Wainwright. "And we think we know where Prometheus have set up shop. Another cave. What is it with evil overlords and caves?"

"It is their natural habitat. How is morale?"

"Us or them?" said Margaret.

"Both."

"I'm glad to be home. Wadcroft is just annoyed that he won't be earning any medals."

"South America mission colours are so pretty," said Wadcroft. "And you can have a decent cup of coffee there." He looked at me. "We're good. Philip isn't happy about going back to the place where he lost his leg. Lots of history there. The rest are bearing up."

 
As I write this, Lady I is somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, heading west towards the forbidden city of Anctapolepl. I have read Philip Tennant's report. Anctapolepl is not its proper name, because he does not want to use it. It is a remnant of the Aztec civilization, with about five thousand souls. Tennant describes it as a rural community with a religious class ruling over it and a warrior class to support them. Or used to. Tennant blew up most of the ruling class with gunpowder, and then left. Human sacrifice used to be practiced there, and maybe it still is. Algernon University has it listed as an inadvisable travel destination, a distinction it shares with certain islands in the Pacific Ocean where the inhabitants might make a meal of the unwary scientist. Just what possesses Slate to pitch his tent there, I don't rightly know, but Philip Tennant came back with as much gold as he could carry, which he used to buy his airship. Perhaps Slate can carry more. I will conduct interviews with all of our expedition members tomorrow.

 
One more thing. We have a new member of faculty. She arrived just as we were all heading to bed. As we were walking through the main hall, the door opened and someone was brought in by Barker.

"Tits!" said Margaret, out of nowhere.

"I beg your pardon?" I said.

Margaret didn't reply, but walked over to the lady who had just entered. The newcomer stared at her, then grinned broadly.

"Oh god Madge, you are here? If I'd known, I'd have doubled my fee!"

"Why are you here? Loony bin let you go and you're looking for a new madhouse?"

"Sort of. Your resident headshrink has taken to raving and ranting about eldritch emanations and I'm here as a locum. Haven't you noticed?"

"Been away," said Margaret. "And it isn't like you're above a little ranting about eldritches yourself."

"Nobody can prove that was me."

"Good evening," I said, feeling a little left out.

"Oh." Margaret waved her hand between us and the new lady. "Dr. Lutitia McGee, Dr. Godfrey Pike, and that is Dr. Alan Wadcroft."

"How do you do," said Dr. McGee.

She took her coat off, put it over her arm and shook my hand. I steadily looked into her eyes. I must stress this. Wadcroft of course was all over the place, but I, as a trained observer, did not allow myself to be distracted.

"Some people just call me Tits." She looked at me with large brown eyes. "I don't know why."

Good God Winston, I swear she jiggled. On purpose! Margaret's face turned red as she tried not to laugh. Evidently, Dr. McGee knew exactly what effect her personality had on young impressionable boys and old impressionable men.

"Pleased to meet you, Dr. McGee," said Wadcroft. "Welcome to Algernon University. Have you been assigned a room yet?"

"Oo. Is that an offer?"

Wadcroft looked at her for a long moment.

"Dr. McGee, you have just made a happy man feel very old."

"Excuse me, Ma'am." Barker pointed at a door. "I've put you in one of the guest rooms for tonight. Tomorrow, we'll make proper arrangements."

"Oh Mr. Barker. Do take me there." She took his arm, waved at Margaret, and was led away.

"Who was that?" said Wadcroft.

"She was in my dorm when I was a prefect at Oxford." Margaret looked innocent. "I don't think she is married."

"She's not?" I turned round. "We must remedy that at once!"

"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a learned man on a pittance of a tenure must be in want of a wife," said Wadcroft.

So there you have it, Winston. I am now in a sordid love triangle between myself, Dr. Lutitia McGee, and Wadcroft. Because obviously, being male, we cannot control our lower instincts in the presence of a well endowed woman. A thousand years of civilisation and yet we are no better than the cavemen of yore.

 
I pity Dr. Wadcroft. He obviously hasn't got a chance.

 
Yours,

Pike.

 

Alexandra Tennant: Over the horizon

Civil conversation - Parting of ways - Know your enemy - The edge of the World

 

---

 

DR. SCHMIDT OFF DUE TO ILLNESS

 

Rina Prescott reporting

 

After many years of teaching his students about the many interesting shapes the Human mind can be bent into, the Clarion must report that Dr. Schmidt will be on sick leave for the foreseeable future. The situation came to a pass when he started to speak in a language seemingly not of this earth, until one of his students noticed that he was speaking backwards. Every word, every sentence. This is a remarkable achievement - try it yourself if you must, or perhaps more wisely, do not. The Clarion wishes Dr. Schmidt a speedy recovery. .noos llew teG

 

In his absence, the Studies of the Human Mind will be taken over by a Prof. Dr. Lutitia McGee, who joins us from Broadmoor Hospital, a mental institution for the criminally insane in Berkshire. She is also a fully qualified medical nurse, able to assist Dr. Bernhardt and Nurse Jenkins should the need arise. Little else is known of Dr. McGee, and few people at Algernon have even seen her face before. I am sure that students and Faculty will extend her a warm welcome, and enrich her life with the new and original forms of insanity that are the staple here at Algernon University.

 
Oh great! I had an appointment with Schmidt next week. -- JV Um. Why? -- RP Mental aptitude test for my career plan. -- JV What career requires one to see a head shrink? I shudder to ask... -- LD I'm thinking of going into Economical Alethiology. -- JV What is... Never mind. -- LD That is best for all concerned. -- JV

 

---

 
Casablanca. A Moroccan city steeped in history, myth and legend. I had just finished ordering supplies of food. Carl and Brenda had been at the suppliers for a bunker full of high energy coal, a tank full of demineralised water for Lady I's boilers, and several tons of lifting gas. I had wandered around in town to buy some smaller supplies of things that the catering companies didn't carry. A few toiletries. Clothes for wearing in warm humid climates, not forgetting a large bag of dried chillies so Father could enjoy his South American cocoa without going mad.

Wainwright had given us an address where Father had discreetly acquired twenty thousand rounds for our repeating cannons and a supply of incendiary grenades and concussive bombs. We had boxes of pistol and rifle ammunition. I had about a thousand high velocity rounds for my rifle. Anything still standing after that probably deserved to live. We had dropped any pretense of subtlety.

Lady I and her crew were going to war.

I was the first to return to the cafe where we parted ways on our various errands, and sat down with a large glass of cool mint tea. A bowl of chillied and salted cashew nuts was on the table to encourage me to drink more. Dinner guests were coming in, ordering aperitifs. They were mostly foreigners from America, France, Prussia. Very few of the locals. A man was playing a sad tune on the piano.

Someone walked up behind me and put her glass down on my table. She pulled out a chair and sat down. I reached for my gun, but she put her hand on my arm.

"Don't be stupid, cherie. You don't want to start a firefight here. Half the Moroccan underworld dines here." A cat-like smirk was on Sabine's face. "Blood baths are only enjoyable when you are the last one standing."

I let go of my Mauser, picked up my glass.

"How are your knees, Alexandra?"

"Fine," I said. "How are the shoulders?"

The smile faded from her expression, and her eyes burnt. "You killed my little desert flower."

"Yes."

"She was completely helpless. You shot her and left her to burn. A girl on the verge of becoming a woman, and you cut her short."

"Your little desert flower was going to kill me."

Sabine scoffed. "Et alors? You are vermin. You are already marked for death, as are all who stand in the way of he new world. You are only prolonging your own agony. Najilah would have been a part of it, and flourished. You took that away from her."

"Don't act all righteous with me, Sabine. You only wanted her as a plaything. A pet. To be taught tricks."

Sabine sat back, closed her eyes. "Killing you would have made her all mine. She knew enough tricks already. I saw a good sample of what she could do. That Secret Service man of yours hardly knew one end of her from the other. I could have shown her a much better time."

"I severely doubt that."

Sabine looked at me for a moment, laughed, bent over to me. "They have rooms here. I could show you."

"You would have to kill me first."

"I would kill you during. There is something deeply arousing about the struggles of a dying woman. To take her breath away just when she needs it most. Did you know that being strangled will give you the most intense orgasm just before you die? I know. I have done it."

"Enjoy your fantasies while you can. They will never become reality before you die. Maybe I will shoot you in the heart, so you have just a moment to realise it was I who killed you. Or maybe I will shoot you in the head, so you won't even hear the shot. Here one moment, gone the next. Maybe I'll let you know when I am watching you." I pointed at her hand. "Maybe the glass you are drinking from will shatter for no apparent reason. Remember, I never miss. I will be on every hilltop. I will be in every building. Don't bother running. You will only die tired. From the moment you leave this place, every breath, every sip of menthe a l'eau, every moment of your life, is a moment I give you. You do not anger a sniper and go on to live a carefree life."

"You won't face me then. You are a coward. I knew it."

I laughed in her face. "Sabine. I honestly believe that you imagine yourself to be in some noble, epic battle. I won't fight you. I will put you down. Comme une vache. Why are you even here?"

"Just for that, I will save you for last. I will make you watch all your family suffer and die. You think you know about suffering and pain now. I will teach you otherwise. When I am done with you, I will give you a knife, and you will pray to me as you end your own life."

She emptied her glass, stood up, and walked away. I pointed my finger at her.

"Bang."

 
Only a few minutes later, Carl and Brenda walked in, looking for an empty table. I waved and they joined me. Brenda tapped Sabine's glass with her fingernail.

"Had some company?"

"Sabine Moreau was here."

"And she's still breathing? Why?"

"Didn't want to start a fight here. Apparently, this is a gangster's bar."

Brenda looked round. "The Frog bitch is full of shit. The three of us could clean out this place in half an hour."

I picked up my glass. "Tempting."

"But then, we couldn't have lunch here." Carl picked up the menu. "I quite fancy some cous-cous."

"Stuff that," said Brenda. "I haven't been in a good tavern brawl for ages."

Carl pointed a finger at her. "That would waste energy better spent on fighting Prometheus. And they do a goat curry here."

"My one weakness," said Brenda.

I waved at a waiter. "Let's hurry. I want to get back to our Lady."

 

---

 
We were ready to leave for South America, to confront Slate in his lair. Because there was a significant chance that we would never return, we had decided to say goodbye to Wadcroft, Margaret, Felicia, Andrew, and Wainwright, who would go with them to keep them safe, leaving only the fighting crew. Except that Fatin had made it perfectly clear that where Carl went, she went.

We arrived at a small train station in the dead of night, and the Algernon lot walked down the gangplank, possibly for the last time. I stood by the door to see them out. Wainwright was the last to step down.

"Take good care of yourself, will you?"

I looked at the floor. "I'm... sorry."

He put down his duffel bag, held my shoulder, put a finger underneath my chin, and I looked up at him.

"It's not your fault."

"I pulled the trigger."

"Yes. Because you had to."

"No I didn't. I could have just left her."

"I don't have much imagination," he said. "But even so, I can think of at least five different ways in which that would have killed you. There could have been another weapon in the room. Sabine could have got a weapon and shot you in the back while Najilah distracted you. None of us were in that building with you. You fought two enemies, and you are now alive. Please stay alive, Alexandra."

He didn't convince me. He smiled at me, and I made myself smile back. He turned round and walked into the night.

"He's sweet on you," said Brenda, winching in the gangplank.

"I severely doubt that."

"What are you, blind? And you just let him walk away? No goodbye kisses?"

"That has to be the very last thing on my mind." I closed the door and started towards the bridge.

"Look Tennant. You got to take these things where you find them. An old Marine once told me. Never miss an opportunity to fill your guts or empty your bowels. You never know when the next one comes along. And that goes for man-flesh too."

"I have no desire whatsoever to partake of his man-flesh thank you very much. And just in case you've forgotten, I killed his lady friend. He's unlikely to want me after that."

"That bitch? He only went for her because men have brains and cocks, and only enough blood to use one of them. I'm telling you. You could have had him any day of the week."

"So why didn't you make any advances on Andrew then?"

"Pff. Wasn't allowed to drop his thinking brain woman down the hatch." Brenda thought a moment. "Do you think they...?"

"Absolutely not."

"So the only ones who are getting any on this ship are that brother of yours and his wife. Enough to drive you to drink, that is." She thumped my shoulder. "We need to get some sex slaves on board. For crew morale."

"I'll put it to Father," I said.

 

---

 
Anctapolepl was about four thousand miles away from Casablanca, a distance we could cover in three days at maximum speed, but to conserve Tyson-enhanced high energy coal, we went slow. This would put us over the second Eagle's nest in about six days, wind and weather permitting. I paired up with Brenda, Carl with Fatin, and we followed a routine of four-hour shifts with the Captain exempt from watch, but on twenty-four hour standby. We had little enough reason to disturb him, but on the third day we encountered a frightful thunderstorm that we avoided by rising to fifty thousand feet, and flying around. Being unable to catch a wink from the noise, we all huddled together on the bridge and watched the lightening from a safe distance, mildly dizzy from the thin air, wrapped up warm, clutching mugs of cocoa. Raage slept through it all, and Stranger the Cat was later found in my bed with a tail like a bottle brush, complaining loudly about these dreadful circumstances.

 
I handed over the helm to Fatin, and walked to the cargo hold to find Carl working the heavy bag with Brenda holding it. I stood still for a few moments watching him. I could see he had been at it for a while and was running out of steam.

Brenda shouted. "Left dropping! Keep it up, Tennant!"

The heavy punchbag is an imaginary opponent. Even though it won't punch back, you should always behave around it as if it will. That means keeping your fists up. Keep moving in and out. Throw series of punches. When you are getting tired, you will forget. Carl sprang back, kicked the bag's midsection, then its top. These kicks were a new addition to his repertoire, he being more of a classical boxer before. Brenda had easily convinced him of their usefulness the first couple of sparring sessions.

"Stop showing off! Show me you're learning, Tennant."

Carl returned to quick jabs, this time with proper defensive posture on the off hand. Even now at the end of his routine, he was still punching harder than I could ever hope to. In my good days, I could beat him, but only by speed and using grappling and throwing techniques. With my legs the way they were, I no longer had the speed advantage and I couldn't dodge and riposte quick enough. Carl no longer went full force on me as he once had. On the one hand, I resented that, on the other, I knew I would only lose if he did.

Brenda glanced at the hourglass. It was empty. "Two more Tennant! Two more."

Carl grunted, threw a series of hard left hooks and a right uppercut, finished with a leaping kick to the middle of the bag, throwing Brenda back. She steadied the bag with one hand as Carl stood back, breathing hard, sweat dripping from his forehead.

"Really? I keep telling you, Tennant. Stop pretending you're Thunderfoot."

Carl grinned, raised his arm and pumped up his bicep. "Thunderfoot is a pansy. I am Feeder-of-lions. Savage beasts eat from my hand."

I laughed. "I know the story behind that name, dear brother of mine."

Carl pointed a finger at me. "You are sworn to silence."

Brenda threw me a pair of gloves, the kind that leaves the fingertips free for grappling. "I'll beat it out of you."

I pulled off my shirt and gave it to Carl. I pulled on the gloves. Sparring with Brenda was different from sparring with my brother. My martial arts training and Carl's were in Jiu-jitsu and boxing. While this does teach you how to throw punches and throw your opponent around, they are essentially sports. Sports have rules to prevent the participants from getting hurt. Brenda's training had been in the military, where hurting your opponent is the whole point of the exercise. She had taken it upon herself to turn us from practitioners of the Martial Arts into proper fighters. She did stop short of killing us, because Father would never let her hear the end of it if she did, but she had not the least problem hurting us. Very educational.

Carl pushed the heavy bag away, and Brenda and I stepped onto the sailcloth floor we had laid down as a kind of boxing ring. I was still far too protective of my legs, a gaping hole in my defences that was wholly in the mind. The memory of pain was still with me, more crippling than the actual injuries. Brenda knew this, and was, as she put it, 'working on it'. I raised my fists, determined to keep them up this time.

She stepped forward, aimed a kick at my knees, and like a puppet on a string, I dropped my right hand to block it. She stopped her feint, and caught me with a viciously fast jab to the face. She didn't even bother commenting, but stepped back, then came in again. This time, I raised my leg rather than dropping my hand and she pushed me back. I managed to recover just in time to block her right jab left hook combination. I retreated. Brenda kicked low again, and I made a grab for her leg while trying to block the inevitable punch to the face. I almost got it, but couldn't keep a solid enough grip on her leg to throw her and she simply sprang back half a pace then came in again. She threw a fast combination of left jabs, then a hard right to the midsection. I blocked them all, and started thinking of hitting back when she started to raise her leg, and I jumped back, twisting out of the way. She followed me with quick steps, unleashed a barrage of punches. Some of them connected, and when Brenda hits you, you feel it. She stepped back a moment with a sneer.

"You can hit back you know? I'm getting more aggro from that bag over there."

I stepped forward, threw a hard right hook which Brenda simply avoided by moving her head back out of the way. She got me with a left to the side and I gasped. I clinched to her, trying to throw her, but she stood firm and hit me in the sides with lefts and rights till I jumped back. It hurt my sides to breathe, and I skirted out of the way to recuperate a little. Brenda came at me, making feints left and right.

"Come on Cherry. You're not gonna beat me by running away." She grinned. "I'm gonna make you eat pain for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

In a sudden flash of anger, I lashed out with a fast left jab that glanced the side of her head.

"Show me what you got, Cherry. Show me what you got."

I gave a snarl, leapt forward, tried to punch her in the face again. She blocked, pushed me back.

"That all you got? Come on! Try harder or you'll end up like last time."

Brenda and Sabine look nothing alike. They both have brown hair, but that's where the similarly ends. Brenda looks like she's built from bricks, Sabine looks like a fairy. Brenda's face looks friendly more than pretty, where Sabine looks elegant, a classical beauty. The two women couldn't be more dissimilar if they tried

And at that moment, I could not tell them apart.

My vision drew in to a circle surrounded by a red mist, and without any conscious thought, with complete disregard for my defence, I leapt forward raining punches on Sabine. Brenda. All I wanted was to destroy her. Turn those perfect features into a bloody mess. Make her suffer all the pain I had felt. And then, finally, when all her body was broken, twisted, blood... kill her.

Brenda stepped back, arms shielding her head. I struck low and she blocked me. Nothing I did connected, and it only made me angrier and angrier. I was no longer practicing Martial Arts, I was no longer even fighting. I was simply battering Sabine, no Brenda with my fists. She retreated, and with one fast sweep, she kicked my legs from under me. I slammed into the floor and lay still, dazed. I heard someone's voice through the ringing in my ears, and through the red mist, I saw her hand.

What I did next will fill me with shame for the rest of my days. I grabbed Brenda's hand, put on a wrist lock, and threw her to the floor. I moved behind her and put a choke hold on, pulling it tight so she couldn't breathe. I wanted her dead. I wanted her dead. Brenda tapped my shoulder, but I took no notice. She tried to hit me, but couldn't reach me because of the way I was holding her. I remember the glee I felt when her movements slowed down. I vaguely heard Carl shouting, but I couldn't hear what he said.

"I got her!" I growled. "I've got the bitch!"

Someone strong grabbed my wrist, broke my choke hold, and pulled me away from Brenda. Carl dropped me on the floor then leapt for her, turned her onto her back. She gasped for breath, tried to get up, fell down again.

"Easy!" Carl put his arm round her, pulled her into a sitting position. "Are you all right?"

I could see her face return to its normal colour. She looked up at Carl, gave him a little nod, found her feet. She stepped over to me, looked down.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I... I am..."

Carl put his hand on Brenda's shoulder. "Alex, why don't you go to your cabin and calm down a little?"

I looked at Brenda. "I'm sorry... I am so sorry..."

And then I fled. I ran straight to my cabin, slammed the door behind me, fell into bed with my shoes on, and started to shake.

 
I woke up, though I didn't remember falling asleep. Father was sitting on my bed. I looked away.

"Would you like to tell me what happened?"

"I..." I breathed in. "I almost killed Brenda."

"Why?"

"I was angry and I couldn't think." I looked up at Father. "Is she allright?"

"Working the heavy bag as we speak," said Father. "More angry with herself for letting you surprise her than anything else, if you ask me." Father leaned back, looking at my desk. "The women on board here don't like to fail." He looked back at me. "You slept through your watch. You're taking Fatin's next shift at the helm. Don't let it happen again."

 
I had been standing at the helm for eight hours. It wasn't so much a punishment as an opportunity to think. Lady I ran through the clouds, with a steady tailwind, never straying from her course. Beneath me, the endless ocean rolled in slow long waves, serenely. I had failed. With Sabine Moreau sitting right across me at my table, I had kept my composure. Why then, in the safety of my own home, had I lost it so completely when Brenda only hinted at Sabine's presence? I had been broken, but I had been mended, glued back together like a cup dropped on the floor. I had to prove that I could still hold tea. The ship's clock behind me struck, and a moment later Fatin came in through the door. I looked at her, and she gave me a smile.

"West north west," I said.

"West north west." She put her hand on my shoulder, turned me towards her, embraced me, her cheek next to mine, her body warm against me. "Good night, Alex."

I walked to the mess hall, not allowing myself to yawn. Inside, Carl and Brenda were finishing up dinner. I looked away, not wanting to eat.

"I'm turning in," I said, quietly. "Good night."

I changed into my pyjamas in the dark, slipped under the covers. A few moments later, the door opened, the light came on. I turned away. I had watched Brenda change before, trying to steal a look at her more intimate tattoos without seeming to look at, well, her. Now, I didn't even dare look in her direction. I heard the creak of the ladder, the thump of Brenda dropping into the bed above me. I looked up.

"Brenda?" My voice was hardly above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

The bed above me creaked. "Don't beat yourself up about it. Ain't the first time someone got a hot head sparring. Not gonna be the last either."

"I shouldn't have. Let myself be..." I turned to the wall. "I'm sorry."

The bed creaked, and there was the thump of Brenda landing on the floor. She grabbed my shoulder, firmly but not unkindly, and turned me round.

"Look Tennant. Sometimes, people are bleeding inside, where you can't see it. Happens mostly when they're caught in an explosion. No skin broken, but they're busted up inside and they're goddamn Marines, and they're too tough to complain about a belly ache, and of course they're good. And then an hour later, they start throwing up blood, and next time you look, they're dead." She pointed at me. "You're bleeding where nobody can see it. You're bleeding in the soul. I ain't no priest, I can't stick a dressing on your soul. But you better make damn sure somebody does, 'cause this crap is affecting combat readiness."

I looked up at her, couldn't find words to say. She grabbed the top of the bunk, and jumped into bed in one leap.

"It won't happen again," I said. "I promise."

"Will you stop it? If it makes you feel better, I'll hit you in the tit next time round. Easiest thing to do, 'cause your blocking stinks. Now if you're done feeling sorry for yourself, I'd like to catch some sleep. Good night Tennant."

 

---

 
As we drew nearer land, the weather became warmer, with occasional squalls of rain. We had lost half a day to headwinds, and on the morning of the seventh day, we drifted into Macapá International Airport, where we took on coal, water, and hydrogen gas. Father took us all out to a restaurant, the last chance for a civilised meal in a civilised place. We stayed there, eating, drinking, till the small hours of the morning, then stumbled back to our home in the sky. We cast off, rose to an altitude of only three thousand feet, and set off to the Northwest.

Carl Tennant: Down in flames

Where we are - The company of friends - A stab in the back - Forest fires - Broken wings - Stare evil in the face

 

---

DINNER TIME

 

Linda Davenport reporting

 

Dinner tonight will consist of cod fried in a batter, in sunflower oil, served with deep fried potatoes and 'petit pois hachées'. What is this, I hear you cry? Has Chef Oliver fallen from his faith? Have dead animals and grease made their way back to our troughs? The answer is yes and no at the same time. Us little piggies will still be fed the plant-based foodstuffs four days of every week, but on Friday, we will have fish, on Sunday we will have chicken, beef, or pork with Yorkshire pudding, potatoes, sprouts, and gravy, and on Wednesday, we will have minced meatballs. Those of the Vegetarian persuasion will still be able to gorge themselves on the food spurned by the rest of us.

 

In short, a compromise has been reached.

 

Lard and animal fats are still not to be found in any of Algernon's deep friers, as these are surely the manifestation of the Goatish One. Thus, our waistlines as well as our sensitive palates will be saved. Your reporters have been roped in with the rest of the guinea pigs for a tasting. I myself, Rina Prescott, Jocelyn Vale, Nigel Arterton, Dirk McDuff, and Bert Greenford have been presented with a sample of the new-new school dinners. The Clarion can reveal that these new dinners are a vast improvement on the rabbit food that went before. The (ah-ha) raw materials were purchased locally, and have been prepared by Chef Oliver with an eye to efficiency. Rumor has it that the actual Army cooks have provided us with their culinary technique. It is to be hoped that is just a rumour.

 

Whether this will be enough to entice the increasingly large Student Bodies away from Mr. Atkins' Fish and Chips carriage, remains to be seen. More on this story as it develops.

 
Well that was nice. I could actually eat this. -- RP I liked the chicken. -- JV Chicken? I thought you were vegetarian? -- LD Except for chicken. Chickens are stupid and evil and deserve to die. -- JV Don't ever change, Crazy Girl. -- RP

 

---

 
The Amazon, like the Nile, the Missisippi, the Thames, is one of the mighty rivers in this world. Almost a world unto itself, it stretches from Peru and Ecuador all the way to the sea at the Brazilian State of Amapá. Lady I sailed calmly above her murky waters, home to tribes like those on the White Nile, the River People who had come to visit the Ajuru. I was at the helm, Fatin was at the telescope, looking down on the South American jungle. I deflated the envelopes, bringing Lady I down just above the surface of the water so she could see better. This piece of the river was almost empty of human life, except for one small steam boat, and was teeming with life. Fatin pointed down at the river dolphins, giant otters, looked with shining eyes at the brightly coloured macaws that took flight startled by the noise of our propellers.

"So much life." She looked at me over her shoulder, with a big smile on her face. "This land is beautiful."

Father came onto the bridge. "Carl my boy, can you take her up to ten thousand feet please? Let's see if we need to turn North yet."

Just a few hours ago, we had taken the sextant up to the top deck and determined our position. Since Father had neglected to take a precise location when last he was there, we didn't know exactly where Anctapolepl was. We would just have to rely on his memory and from there on the sense of dread that was about the place. As Lady I rose, the River lay below us like a map, and Father took out his telescope. He looked round, sighed, shook his head.

"I've no memory of this place at all," he said. "Of course, last time I was on the ground. Any signs from our Hermes device?"

"We get the occasional blink, but every time I try to get a bearing, they stop talking."

"How inconsiderate of them," said Father.

None of us had the inexhaustible patience of Andrew Parsons, who would happily sit still staring at a light for hours on end, until it came on and he could point the magic wand at whoever was talking, meanwhile constructing complicated machines in his head. We knew why they were no longer on board, but still we missed our friends.

Alex came onto the bridge sporting a few fresh bruises on her arms. Having nearly killed our drill sergeant, oh pardon me, drill instructor, she had been put right back on the horse, and the practice had lost some if its soft and gentle aspects. As long as we kept improving, nobody complained too much.

"Can we see the Feathered Serpent yet?"

"I think we are on the right continent," said Father. "Now we just need to search seventeen million square miles."

"Does that mean we can have the afternoon off?" I said.

"Certainly not," said Father. "That's for swabbing the deck."

"You are a cruel captain," I said. "Are we turning North yet?"

Father took one more look down, shook his head. "Not yet."

"Would you like me to take over the helm?" Alex came up to the wheel. "It's about time."

I stepped aside. "Due West. Follow the river."

"Due west, follow the river," said Alex and took the helm.

I looked at he front observation chairs where the Device stood, walked down the steps, heaved it onto my shoulders with its straps.

"I'm taking this up top, and I'm not going to rest until I get a decent bearing on the Eagle's nest."

"Enjoy the sunshine," said Alex.

"That is merely a side benefit," I said.

I bent over Raage's pram. He was moving in his sleep. I stroked his dark curly hair, kissed the top of his head. He screwed up his face, blinked once or twice, opened his eyes, took a deep breath and started wailing. Fatin gave me a look, picked him up, took him to a chair and started feeding him.

"Sorry," I said.

"Go away," said my one true love.

 
I climbed the ladders to the top deck, being careful not to bang the Device against doors. I strapped it to the deck, turned the knob, sat down, and slowly swept the wand round from East to West. The Green Eye in the handle did not change even in the slightest, meaning that nobody was sending messages. But if Andrew Parsons could sit still for hours on end, so could I.

I kept myself occupied by singing one of the lays I had learnt in the Ajuru, a cautionary tale about a boy who wanted to go climb the Tall Tree in the middle of a grassy field to impress a girl. The little boy asked his father, who told him no, the lions might eat you. Then he asked his mother, and she told him no, the lions might eat you. Not deterred by this, he then asked his uncle, his aunt, his sister, the tribe elder, the witch doctor, and the first hunter. They all told him not to go, because the lions might eat him. Finally, he asked his little brother, who at long last gave him the answer he wanted, and off to the Tall Tree he went. Needless to say, a lion saw him, caught him, and made lunch of the stupid boy, proving that majority rule is usually the best, and also that little brothers are rats. And he probably got the girl.

Once I settled into a steady rhythm, I found the experience almost meditative, calming to the mind, and restful. In this almost spiritual state of mind, I didn't notice the hatch opening. As I swept the magic wand back to the East, I found Fatin standing there, looking down on me, hand on her hip. I smiled up at her, then slowly swept the wand back to the West. When I returned to the East, I found that Fatin had unbuttoned her blouse. I paused momentarily, then resumed sweeping the sky for things unseen.

"I must not be distracted from my duty," I said, "No matter how beautiful the view."

She bent over me, and her blouse fell open. I stopped looking at my measuring device.

"I do not wish you to be lonely," she said in the language of the Ajuru.

"I am not," I said. "You are with me."

I swept the wand round again, and Fatin stepped round with it. Her blouse fluttered in the wind, offering tantalising glimpses of her breasts. Our English experts on the Humanities like to tell us that since African girls and women walk around bare-breasted all the time, the men no longer even look at them. From my experience in the company of bona fide African hunters, I can tell you that is complete nonsense. There is no man in the entire world who does not enjoy a fine pair of breasts. I looked at her, swept the wand back slowly with Fatin following it with a bright grin.

"Where's Raage?"

"He is a happy boy." Fatin kept walking back and forth following the wand. "Brenda is feeding him porridge."

"He'll be growing teeth soon," I said. "You won't have to give him the breast anymore. He'll be eating bacon and eggs like the rest of us."

Fatin laughed, stood up straight, showing nothing, promising everything. "And why do you say that?"

I swept the wand to the right, then quickly twitched it back to the left. Fatin laughed and leapt to follow. I twitched the wand back to the right. This did interesting things to her chest. Fatin looked down for a moment then gave me a look that made my stomach knot up. She bent down, put her hands on my shoulders, pushed me onto my back and fell on top of me. Her hair fell down over my face, and then we were kissing. She shrugged out of her blouse, put it under my head to keep it from blowing away.

"We have a lot of time," she whispered. "We are together, only you and I."

Her hair got into my mouth. I held her tight and rolled over on top of her. I brushed her long curls out of her face, kissed her lips, then buried my face in her neck, kissing her just underneath her ear. She sighed contentedly, and I sat up, took off my shirt and put it on the deck, not really caring whether the wind would take it. She reached up and pulled me down on top of her. I was just thinking of removing more of my clothes, when she looked up.

"Kal?" She pointed. "Look."

I looked into her eyes. "You come here to jump on me, and now you get distracted?"

"There's another airship," she said.

I frowned, looked where Fatin was pointing. There was a small black spot in the blue sky, moving in the same direction we were.

"It's a bird," I said, more out of hope than out of conviction.

Fatin shook her head. "It doesn't have wings that move."

I took one more longing look at her, then stood up and picked up the binoculars. The cigar shape was unmistakable. The airship was at about twice our altitude, ten, fifteen miles away. I gave the binoculars to Fatin and she looked up while I looked at a beautiful nearly naked woman.

"Do you think they can see us?"

Fatin stepped behind me, wrapped her arms round me. "That is very rude. Let them look at their own women."

I took back the binoculars. The ship was too far away to recognise. It could be anyone. They might be friends. They might have nothing to do with us. They might be following us. Fatin rubbed her cheek on my shoulder and sighed. I put my hand on her hair.

"You know what I want to do, don't you?"

Fatin's hand strayed downwards. I couldn't see her face, but her smile sounded through in her voice. "Yes."

I turned round, held her, looked into my love's dark brown eyes. "You know what I have to do."

"I wish I had kept my lips on yours."

"We will look very stupid if they start to shoot at us before we finish."

Fatin bent down, picked up my shirt and her blouse. We put them on, and she stroked my lips with her thumb.

"This is not finished, Kal Tennant."

 
"We could turn and use the big telescopes," said Alex. "See if they're armed."

We were all standing on the top deck, looking at the strange airship.

"Then they'll know we have spotted them," said Father.

"If they have any kind of telescope, they can see us gawking at them," said Brenda.

"We should give them a sign," I said.

"Alexandra, no." said Brenda.

"What?"

"We will not show them our bare backsides."

"Pff. I haven't shown my bare backside to anyone except you since..." She thought back. "God, I don't remember. That is deeply sad."

"I told you we should have taken on a few sex slaves. Nobody here ever listens to me."

"Shall we make a course change?" I said. "If they also change course, we know they're after us."

"I suppose we could do with going a few miles North," said Father. "The City is north of the River. We must be getting close."

I looked at the Hermes finder device, and only after a few moments did I realise that the detection light was on. I made a leap for the wand, and as I swept it round from East to West, the green eye narrowed, widened again, then narrowed as I swept the wand back. I pulled my compass from my pocket.

"North by East," I said.

Father nodded severely. "Well, my boy, in that case, I think we shall definitely make a course change."

 
We were proceeding on our North-by-East course, at half speed. Father stood by the starboard telescope and peered at our new companion, who had changed course as well, and was on a parallel course with us. They were still too far away to read any markings or otherwise see who they were. They were much larger than us. It became dark and all we could see of them were their lights.

I finished my turn at the helm, handed the wheel over to Alex and walked to our cabin. I found Fatin in her nightgown. She was just putting Raage to bed. I took off my clothes, turned down the lights, and started to get into bed.

"Kal Tennant? What are you doing?"

I turned round to her. "What do you m..."

Fatin dropped her nightgown to the floor.

"We have things to do."

"Gladly, my love." I reached for her, but she moved out of the way.

"Not here." She pointed up. "There."

Before I could say another word, Fatin had opened our cabin door and walked out. Quickly and quietly, we moved through the cargo hold, into the way to the bridge, up the ladders into the envelopes, then up to the observation deck. Fatin went up the last ladder, pushed the hatch open, stepped onto the observation deck to the loud rush of water. Dense clouds, broken here and there to show the stars, were pouring warm rain over Lady I.

"Fatin!"

I climbed halfway up through the hatch. Fatin stood on the top deck waiting for me, black thin streaks of hair clinging to her brown skin, glistening in the dim light of the stars and the moon, and in all the world, there was not a more beautiful sight to be found. She looked at me, a little smile on her face.

"It's raining," I said.

"Kal Tennant." Fatin reached down for my hand, pulled me up. She walked backwards a few paces, pulling me along. "You are using your lips to talk about the rain. Come here, and use them for something better."

 

---

 
We stayed on course, as did our unknown companion. We still didn't know who they were, not even with the more powerful telescopes we had on the bridge. We had moved the Hermes device back inside. Three more messages flitted by through the luminiferous ether, and we only needed to make minute course changes. As we drew nearer our destination, Father became more and more restless. He still didn't recognise the area, but since he had walked these lands rather than flying over them, that was not to be expected. I didn't like to ask him if he had seen Lady Itzel in his dreams, and I'm not sure he would have answered if I had. To avoid flying blind into the dread city, we now flew only by day, and anchored ourselves to the ground by night.

In the early evening of the third day since we had turned North, Brenda was at the helm, I was at the telescope, observing our faithful companion. Father came in without a word, walked to the telescope, and pointed it at a specific point. He called over his shoulder.

"All stop. Take us to thirty thousand feet."

"Aye-aye Captain." Brenda uncoupled the propellers, turned round to the controls behind her. "All stop, rising."

I stepped over to Brenda, watching the altimeter. She called out the altitudes every five thousand feet as Lady I rose. "Thirty thousand."

She closed the valves that allowed more hydrogen into the envelopes, looked at me. I looked over the gauges, checked the pressure, nodded. Brenda didn't have the papers to fly airships, but in gratitude for beating us black and blue in the sparring ring, we had been teaching her how to fly Lady I. Every one of her watches included some light aerial gymnastics.

"Found something, Father?"

"Come and look," said Father, locking the telescope.

The first thing I saw were large fields of grain, too orderly for mere natural processes. They were next to a mountain, an extinct volcano.

"The entrance is to the right of the middle." Father put his hand on his thigh. "I could see that table mountain from my window. When I left, I walked through those fields. Using crutches." He looked away for a moment, a pained expression on his face. "Well, Great Huitzilopochti, We have arrived. Now, we will see what must be done."

 
At that moment, there was a whistling noise. I truly did not recognise it for what it was until the next shell smashed through our forward canopy. Gas came howling out of two large holes.

"Full speed ahead! Hard to starboard! Rise to forty thousand!"

I engaged the propellers, while Brenda turned the wheel. Slowly, too slowly, Lady I turned to face her enemies. More shells whistled past. As we started to pick up speed, Lady I started to pitch forward. I closed the valves to the forward envelopes and recklessly slammed the handles forward that put more coal into the burners. The engines thundered as steam pressure increased. As we turned, our enemies came into view in the front windows, close, too close. Their cannons fired again, and the shells whistled past far too close for comfort.

The bridge door slammed open, and Alexandra came running in, followed by Fatin carrying Raage. She gave him to Brenda and leapt for the controls.

"Iris. Itzel. You are hurt. But you must not stop. We must..." She pushed the propeller pitch handles forward. Lady I lurched forward. Fatin bared her teeth. "Hunt!"

With only the buoyancy in her rear and middle envelopes to work with, Lady I rose slowly. As she gained speed, the aillerons became more effective and Lady I pitched up a little until the enemy airship showed itself in our front windows.

"What on Earth?" Father stared. "It's Boreas!"

As he said the name, they fired again, but we had risen too far above them for their cannons to reach.

"There must be some kind of mistake," I said.

"Yes there is," said Father. "And they have just made it. Carl, to the forward cannons! Brenda, to the bomb hatch! I'll hold Raage. Alexandra, to the rear cannons. Fire at will!"

I leapt down the hatch to the forward gun deck, trained my gun on Boreas' canopy. I could hardly believe they were now our enemies. The only explanation was that Prometheus had captured her, and so they must have slaughtered all on board. I aimed, fired, watched the thirty millimetre shells smash into the sailcloth top. Every fifth shell was a tracer round, streaking towards my target like an angry burning wasp, causing plumes of fire to erupt from holes in Boreas' canopy. These people had killed my friends. Faithful companions on many an expedition. They had saved our lives on several occasions. And now they lay dead in a ditch somewhere. Every one of my rounds sounded out retribution. I whispered the names of my fallen friends until we had passed over them and I could no longer reach. Behind me, I could hear the sound of explosions as Brenda rained hell upon Boreas. Finally, the staccato rapport of our rear cannons as Alex dealt out final judgement. Lady I came round, her damaged bows dipping again as she slowed down. I could only see Boreas burning out of the side window, and my gun wouldn't reach.

The hatch above me opened, and Father shouted.

"Are you deaf or what? Emergency landing! Go fetch Brenda and Alexandra!"

I climbed up, ran out of the door to the cargo bay, where Brenda was just closing the bomb hatch.

"To the bridge! We're going to crash! Go! I'll fetch Alex!"

Brenda wasted no time, and ran for'ard. I sprinted though the mess hall, opened the rear gun deck hatch. Alex was still firing.

"Cease fire! We're going to make an emergency landing! To the bridge!"

Alex looked up at me, climbed up. Together, we ran to the bridge, where Fatin was at the helm, desperately trying to steer with propellers and rudder. Father was in his chair, holding Raage. I stepped up and took him.

"Thank you, my boy," he said, with a calm voice. "Fatin my dear, try to make for the table mountain."

"They are in pain, Captain Philip." Fatin's voice shook.

"I know dear," said Father. "To port just a little, can you do that?"

Lady I wasn't listening to her rudder, and Fatin had to steer using the propeller pitch.

"Too far! Back a little. You are doing well, my girl. Keep it up just a little while longer. Do you see where we are going?"

Fatin only nodded, tried to keep us pointing at the one flat piece of land for miles around in the forest. We were losing altitude rapidly, and we had to pump precious lifting gas into the rear envelopes without knowing if they were whole.

"Come Iris, come Itzel. Just a little more and then you can rest."

Fatin no longer used the rudder. Our mighty turbines provided all the steering we had, and Lady I stumbled through the sky like a drunken sailor.

"Just a little bit more..." Only now I realised that she was speaking in the Ajuru language, cajoling her friends Iris and Itzel into giving their best, nursing them as best she could, pouring her love into them like coal.

The table mountain drew nearer and nearer. We were just a few dozen feet above the edge, and sinking. Sinking fast. Fatin sang to both our Ladies, not allowing the fear to show through in her voice. We had only a half-mile to go, and the gondola was below the edge of the mountain. Fatin pressed on, faster and faster, hands holding the controls gently, until we could see the flat mountain top in our down-facing windows. Nobody spoke, only Fatin's voice could be heard. I sat down with my back to the railing, held Raage tight in my arms. I looked up at Fatin. She looked down on me, and amazingly, she smiled.

"Do not fear my love."

At the last moment, Fatin uncoupled the propellers, reversed the pitch, engaged them again. Our engines roared, as they pulled Lady I back, out of her dive, the gondola moving forward like the swing in the back yard of Windsor Gardens. With one final leap, our Lady rose, missed the edge of the mountain by no more than a few inches. Then, with a noise too loud and horrible to be truly heard, the gondola hit the ground. The front window shattered into a thousand pieces, and there was a grinding noise of our airship sliding over the mountain top. Fatin turned on the hydrogen pumps to pump the gas from the envelopes back into the tanks. Slowly, Lady I tilted sideways, until finally, she came to rest lying half on her side. There was a hellish rattling sound of our port propeller smashing itself to pieces on the rocky ground. Then the engines shut themselves off, and there was only the creaking of tortured wood and metal.

"Out!" Father shouted. "Everybody out!"

We all scrambled to the bridge door over the weirdly angled floor, made for the outside door, and leapt out onto the rock. As fast as our legs could carry us, helping those less fleet of foot as much as we could, we ran away from Lady I, fearful that a stray spark would set our hydrogen on fire. We ran almost to the other edge of the plateau, turned round. Fatin fell to her knees, looking at our home, and burst into tears.

"I am... so. Sorry."

Father stepped up to her, went down on one knee. He gently touched her hair, and kissed her forehead.

"Thank you, Fatin of the Ajuru. Thank you for saving our lives. If it had been anyone else at the helm, we would all be dead now." He held her shoulders. "Thank you."

"Doesn't seem to be on fire," said Brenda. "That's a goddamn miracle." She thumped Alex' shoulder. "Means we can get our stuff out. You go first."

Alex made no reply. She was looking Eastward at the burning wreck of the airship Boreas. She shook her fists at them and screamed.

"Not today, you bastards! Not today!"

 
We waited about an hour, and Lady I staunchly refused to catch fire. Leaving Father, Alex, Fatin, and Raage behind, Brenda and I walked up to our Lady. She was listing to port at about a forty-five degree angle, and we climbed up into the hallway, walked across the slanted floor to the cargo hold. Everything not tied down had shifted to port, but all the crates were still secure. Being a stevedore teaches you how to tie knots and secure fastenings. We climbed the steps to the mess hall, then went into the galley to fill a bag with food for later. Brenda lowered herself into her and Alex' cabin for some necessities.

"Ow!"

"What?" I said.

"You little shit! What are you doing here?"

There was a desperate yowling noise.

"Oh come here, you!"

I moved over, and saw Brenda come out carrying a bag on her shoulder and a miserable little bundle of fur in her arms. Stranger the Cat had survived! Brenda sat down against the wall, held Stranger to her, scratched her behind the ears.

"It's allright, baby. It's allright."

I laughed. "Didn't take you for the maternal type."

She kept stroking Stranger, but her eyes narrowed. "Breathe one word about this, Tennant, and so help me..."

"Wouldn't dream of it. Let's go."

 

---

 
Father and I went on a patrol of our new domain. The table mountain was surrounded on all sides by lush green forests, though there was a large clearing to the East where no trees grew. As we came to the northeast of the plateau, Father pulled out his telescope and looked at the Mountain of Anctapolepl, fifteen miles or so away. I heard him mutter words under his breath I assumed were Nahuatl. I could only recognise the name of Lady Itzel. He stood in silence for a moment, then turned to the East where Boreas was still burning. I tried to feel remorse, but they had been the first to open fire on us. There but for the grace of God lay we. Once weapons are drawn, the time for compassion is past. Prometheus had stolen the vessel of our friends and turned her against us. No more was to be said.

We walked along the edge of the plateau to the South. Some five miles distant was a river running east to west, possibly a tributary of the Amazon herself. It promised good fishing for when our supplies would run out. Nothing else but an ocean of green could be seen in any direction. We were surrounded by miles and miles of jungle on all sides. The familiar thought struck me of how far away from home we were. Did it even make sense to measure the distance in miles? What, come to think of it, was Home? I looked behind me at the large cigar shape of Lady I, and could see Alex, Brenda and Fatin busy putting up tents on the hard rock a safe distance away from the tons of hydrogen sill inside our airship. I could hear the clink of the sledgehammer on the tent pegs.

We sat together in the ladies' tent, rain clattering on the canvas roof. It was still warm and little streams of water flowed by. Alex was making tea on a small petroleum burner near the entrance of the tent. We had a meal of stale bacon sandwiches. We sat and talked for a while, and then Father got up and left for the men's tent. Fatin was lying in my lap, holding Raage to her, eyes closed. When I tried to get up, she reached out and pulled me back. Brenda gave me an amused look, picked up Stranger, and went to sleep in the other tent. Alex, Fatin, Raage and I settled in for the night, thousands of miles away from home. Or maybe we were home. When all is said and done, we are explorers. Home to us is not a place built out of sticks and stones. Home is people.

 
The next morning, Alex, Brenda, and I entered Lady I to see if she would ever fly again. We climbed up into the in-envelope deck. One cannot smell pure hydrogen, but many of the hydrogen compounds have a noticeable odour. The sunlight came in through the hole in the roof where the grenade had hit us. Our Lady being made essentially from cloth over a wood and steel frame, the shell had passed straight through and left on the other side. Three of our four forward envelopes had been punctured, and one of the wooden beams had cracked. None of the steel structures had been hit, which was incredibly lucky. A single spark could have set our lifting gas aflame, and Lady I would have exploded in mid-air. Hydrogen, despite its superior lifting capacity, is a thoroughly frightening chemical of huge destructive power. I climbed over to the hydrogen tanks and saw by the pressure gauges that they were about a third full. Under the best conditions, that would just about lift Lady I a few dozen feet off the ground. With only five of our eight envelopes available, we were going nowhere. The thing to do, then, was to patch the holes in the envelopes with fresh canvas, and make them gas tight with molten gutta percha. That would take days easily, weeks more likely. We closed off the stopcocks to the envelopes, then tested to see if the hoses were still gas-tight. They were, which was good.

We brought news of this to Father, and after some deliberations we decided to try and get our Lady upright by inflating the remaining envelopes. With sledgehammers, we drove long metal spikes into the rock, to which we connected the mooring lines. Alex was on the bridge, watching the gauges, while Brenda and I watched the mooring lines. At Father's signal, Alex opened the valves, and the four rear envelopes and our remaining front one inflated. There was a creaking sound, and slowly, slowly, Lady I righted herself. Alex came to the broken window.

"One atmosphere! This is all she has, people!"

I had hoped for even the tiniest amount of flight, but we were well and truly stuck, run aground like the dinghy Alex and I used to sail on the Serpentine. We managed to extend the landing wheels, and then we could start up the small auxiliary engine that pumped our gas back into the tanks. Lady I settled on the rocky floor, with a sense of finality. Our Lady is not a balloon. She doesn't collapse when you pump the gas out, but keeps her shape, supported by an internal frame of steel and wooden beams. The rough landing hadn't done her any good, though. Some of the beams were broken, and some of the steel had bent. Without Andrew Parsons' Herculean strength, we wouldn't be able to repair it all. We would have to fashion a new propeller as well. All of which were tasks we were not sure at all were within our means.

"Still," said Father, "We're out of the rain."

 
It was a great comfort that our Lady was now safe, and we could sleep in our own beds. Robinson Crusoe would not have approved, and loudly accused us of cheating, but Crusoe could damn well find his own airship if he wanted one. We knocked the last fragments of glass from the bridge windows, and closed it up with tarpaulins against the wind and rain. When we would finally fly our Lady out of here, goodness knows how, it would be a windy trip.

We had not forgotten that just a few short miles away, our enemies lay waiting. It took all my strength and Brenda's to remove the cannons from Lady I's gun decks and mount them on stands on either side of her. We covered them with tarpaulins against the rain, ready to use at a moment's notice.

We gave the tents we had made the first night another purpose. We set them up to the north-east, and inside we put the Hermes Finder Device and one of the telescopes. After a few days, we brought the Device inside. There was nothing more it could tell us. Every time the light came on, it pointed straight at the Mountain.

We had found what we were looking for. We had found our enemies.

Alexandra Tennant: Windsor Gardens by Eldorado

Our mountain top home - Shopping for food - Stitched up right good and proper - A scouting mission - The side entrance is closed - Past and present glory - Magister Slate - Back to Windsor Gardens

 

---

 

EXCLUSIVE: RETURNING VOICES

 

Rina Prescott reporting

 

We all will remember that after last year's unleasantness, most of the members of the Wadcroft Expedition into darkest Africa left on another expedition, the details of which have not been released to the public. The Clarion can now reveal that Professors Enderby and Wadcroft, as well as Miss Felicia Sunderland and Mr. Andrew Parsons, have returned to Algernon University. Professor Enderby will no doubt resume her Physics lectures, and Prof. Wadcroft will return to his subjects of Geology and especially Biology, picking up from Professor Brassica. There is reason to hope that they will be using their original class materials and not those introduced by Prof. Brassica, who will be able to concentrate once more on her 'alternative' medicine studies, which is a term for medicine that has yet to be proven to work, and is therefore a more optimistic study than many others.

 

A new addition to our faculty is Prof. Dr. Lutitia McGee, who will act as a locum while Dr. Schmidt recovers from his troubles. She specialises in various troubling and deviant aspects of the human mind, and has already shared with the Clarion that there is no lack of study objects in the student body and faculty. In due course, there will be a curriculum on these subjects, restricted to the more mature under-graduate students, and post-doctoral students. On behalf of all the Clarion staff, we wish her a pleasant tenure at Algernon University.

 
Oh thank God Wadcroft is back! No more spontaneous generation, vital energy, and miasms in Biology lectures. -- LD Huzzah for sanity! And it's Miasmas. -- RP I refuse to spell that correctly. You managed to talk to Dr. McGee? -- LD Oh yes, she's very friendly. Bumped into her in the library, and she didn't mind answering a few questions. -- RP She's going to be very popular with the boys. -- JV Um. Why? -- RP Seconded. Why? -- LD I'm going to have to be the one who says it, aren't I? -- JV Says what? - LD Anyone else notice the kettle drums? The dairy? The dugs? The ripe fruits? The Manuals of Love's Devotion? -- JV Someone on the Itty Bitty Committee evidently has. -- RP I'm coming for you Rina Prescott. -- Anon.

 

---

 
I can thoroughly recommend living in a stranded airship on top of a table mountain high above the Amazon Rainforest. It is nearly always sunny by day, and the rains in the afternoon provide one with all the needed water. We had named our mountain "Windsor Gardens" after the street where we used to live in London. With our depleted store of hydrogen, and no road signs pointing at England, we had resigned ourselves to staying here for a while. So we set about making ourselves at home. No home is complete without a lookout post to keep an eye on one's neighbors, some air defence, and of course a convenient way to go to the shops for some meat and vegetables. Fortunately, the shops were only five hundred feet away. Unfortunately, those feet were vertical, not horizontal. I was the first to lower myself on a rope, taking great leaps off the mountain side as I slid down. Down is easy. Next was Brenda, who came running down the side of the mountain face down, grinning like a madwoman. I kicked myself for not thinking of doing that, and made a note to try it next time. Our mission was to find some sturdy poles to construct an A-frame from which we could suspend a block and tackle to winch up more things from the forest. We were carrying rifles just in case something four-legged would show up that we could eat, or something two-legged that might want to eat us. Carl would stay up top to lift us and our shopping back up.

Rain forests are famous for two things, one being rain, the other being trees. It took us no time at all to find a tree with nice long straight branches. I got out the axe and started chopping with Brenda looking on.

"Just pretend it's a French tree," she said.

I gave her a wry smile. She wasn't going to let me forget. It took me only a few minutes before the tree cracked, and slowly toppled to the ground. We chopped off the side branches, and ended up with two ten-foot poles as thick as Brenda's arms that would serve nicely. When you will be hanging from your arts and crafts project five hundred feet above the ground, you want it to be solid. We sat down and unpacked our sandwiches. At some point, we would run out of flour to make bread, and tins of roast beef. The eggs were already running low, and at some point we would have to resort to tea... without milk! It had taken us less than a minute to agree that we would need to live off the land, and that our tinned food supply was for emergencies only. For now, though, we had our beef-and-guilt sandwiches. There is never a lack of water in a rainforest, and I managed to get a fire going so we could have tea. We hadn't found any cocoa beans yet. Father would just have to wait for his xocolatl.

Even though I had spent a good part of my life on expeditions, eating outside still felt like a picnic, especially with a campfire. I looked to the northeast. So far, we had not been visited by the Enemy. In fact, we had seen no sign of human life at all, native or otherwise. Did they think we were dead? Hadn't they seen the huge fiery thing to their south?

"What were we thinking?" I realised I had said that out loud.

"Leave that to the professionals," said Brenda.

"Flying out here to shoot one person who is trying to take over the world?"

"How dare you criticise the strategic plan, Tennant."

I laughed. "Honestly Brenda. Why do you put up with us? All we do is use you and abuse you, and now and then give you someone to fight."

"Isn't as bad as some of the places I've been. At least you people don't..."

I waited. "What?"

Brenda's face turned quiet, hard. She looked into the fire. "Ain't gonna tell you." She looked at me with a little grin. "Don't take it personally. I'm never going to tell anyone."

I reached out for her well illustrated shoulder. "We owe you, Brenda. I owe you."

She gave a snort. "What are you going to do? Suck my..."

"You've been hanging around with too many men, Miss Lee."

"Ain't that the truth." She drank the last of her tea. "Most of them assholes too."

"Arseholes. In the Queen's English."

"Your queen is one rude..." She frowned, pointed. "What's that?"

I looked. A fairly large, somewhat pig-like creature with a drooping snout had come to the water to drink.

"Oh they're fairly common around here. It's called a tapir."

"I'm calling it dinner."

Brenda reached for her rifle, aimed, fired. The tapir dropped to the ground without ever having heard the shot. We tied its legs to the poles and carried it to the Elevator. Carl had left a line hanging over the edge. I pulled it and far away, we could hear the ship's steam whistle, powered by the small utility steam engine's boiler. A few minutes later, we saw Carl waving at us from up above.

"Sorry, no soliciting please!"

I shook my fist at him. "If you make me climb up there with my poor knees, I will throw you down when I get up!"

"Oh dear. Can't have that, can we? Look out below!"

A rope came falling down and we tied it to the poles and the dead tapir. With a 'Heave away!' it ascended slowly to the Heavens, or at least our dining table. The rope came down again, and Brenda and I were hoisted up. We found Carl and Fatin looking at our catch.

"You have brought up a tapir," said Fatin, pronouncing the word carefully. "Look at its nose! Are they good to eat?"

"Never had one before," I said. "Waitrose don't have them."

"Waitrose is for plebeians," said Carl. "You want the Royal Farm Shop for tapir steak."

We fetched a bucket, some tarpaulins, ropes, and a set of butcher's knives, and hung up the tapir by its hind legs, using the poles we had just brought up. We spunged the tapir down with hot water. Fatin grabbed a knife, put a bucket underneath the beast, and cut open its throat to drain the blood. We could only stand back and watch in awe as she sliced off the skin, let the intestines roll out onto a tarpaulin, then divided up the meat, now and then instructing Carl to hold this or that part for her. She ended up with a neat row of thin cutlets, four joints, liver, kidneys, and assorted sweetbreads all lying on a clean piece of leather.

She wiped her forehead with her hand, looked down at herself.

"There is blood on all my clothes!"

"Well, what did you expect?" I said. "Don't you get this in Africa?"

Fatin grinned. "We do not wear clothes when we do this in Africa. And then we go into the river to get clean. Sometimes your man comes with you to see if you are really clean." She pointed at the liver. "That is good to give him before you go."

"I thought you'd go for the bollocks," said Brenda, in the Queen's English.

"This is a girl tapir," said Fatin.

 
We packed up the meat we could use and burnt the rest. Fatin said that normally she would have given it to the forest, but we were a bit high up, and bloody streaks on the mountainside would have given away our position. In a forest, there are many hungry mouths, from ants to vultures. But today they went hungry.

With some care, we constructed a crane that could lower and lift materials and our well proportioned selves between the forest floor and the mountain top, and now we could get our new little colony going properly. With our bosun's chairs, two of us could use the elevator at the same time. Being old sailors, we had stowed on board unbelievable amounts of good quality rope of various thickness, and with a block and tackle above and below, even Fatin could easily pull herself and a passenger up. There was no soil on top of our mountain, all was hard rock and setting up poles for a smokehouse was a long hard job for Brenda and Carl. This smokehouse was essential for our long term survival. An unlucky tapir's meat will go off within a day in the hot wet rainforest. You can preserve meat for a week or so by drying it in the sunshine. Did I mention we were in a rainforest? Another method is salting the meat. The salt draws the moisture out of the meat, and it will keep for months. We had enough salt to flavour a lifetime worth of soup, but definitely not to cover an entire tapir. So what was left was smoking the meat. We built a small shed about eight feet tall, four feet on each side, and in it we stoked a fire of wood as dry as we could find. This ensured that none of the meat we caught would go to waste. Father, unable to do heavy lifting with his damaged right arm, declared himself Master Smoker, and kept the fire burning. I can tell you, smoked tapir is delicious.

Once the elevator was working, Fatin would not be stopped from sailing down and exploring the forest. I went with her, rifle in hand in case anything unfriendly, on four legs or two, would try to inconvenience us. For hunting, my Accuracy International rifle was scandalously overpowered. I could have brought down a tapir a mile away, but then we would have to run a mile to get it, which is precisely the miscalculation that earned my brother his nickname of 'Feeder-of-lions'. Fatin bloomed up in this new place full of life, trees, plants, flowers, creatures. Her powers of observation were almost magical, grown in a lifetime of living in a place where practically everything could either feed you or kill you. No book can teach you this. Experience is everything. I swear Fatin conjured up fruit, edible mushrooms, vegetables, berries, ex nihilo. As a nearly blind Englishwoman, I was reduced to carrying the stuff Fatin found.

 
We hauled ourselves up with a large bag of forest produce, stocked our larder, made soup from smoked meat and jungle vegetables. It was particularly satisfying because apart from coal for the oven, we had used nothing that we brought with us. Even the water was bountifully supplied to us by the Heavens. Father declared us a successful hunter-gatherer tribe. The next thing to do was tend to our poor wounded airship. We splinted the broken beams with strips of iron, then suspended ourselves from the roof to sew up with awls the holes made by Boreas' shells. To make Lady I's envelopes gas-tight again, we coated them with liquid gutta percha. We did not have the right material to cover the outer shell, so we left that open, an ugly scar on our Lady's graceful form. And of course, we needed a lot of hydrogen, which we had no way of obtaining, but when we did, at least now we had a place to put it.

 
We had been at Windsor Gardens for a month, when Father called an all-hands in the mess hall. "My children," he said, meaning all of us, "we have set up our home, but we did not come to live here. We need to mount an expedition to Anctapolepl, and see what is happening there."

He pulled out a sheet of paper, and drew on it a large circle. This was the outer limit of the mountain. Inside, he drew an octagonal structure, the temple holy to the Great Warrior Huitzilopochtli. The people of Anctapolepl were industrious, and had carved out their dwellings, and the hallways between them, in the side of the volcano, some of them looking in, the most prestigious ones like my Father's looking out.

Father pointed at the South side of the circle. "This is where the royal quarters used to be, with the royal vaults underneath."

"Used to be?" I said.

Father gave me a grim smile. "I blew them to the Heavens above, and so Lady Itzel was avenged. The main entrance is to the South-east. It was opened when I left, but who knows? It may be closed and guarded now. If I were Slate, I would seal it up to keep people from escaping."

Father drew two nearly straight lines to the North. "That is the secret entrance where I entered. There is a statue to Huitzilopochtli by the tunnel entrance, and you have to walk between His legs to enter."

"Don't look up," said Brenda.

"The sculptors have not represented that in their zeal," said Father. "The tunnel goes on for about a mile or so, and then opens onto the Great Cavern."

"Why would the Aztec have made a secret entrance?" said Carl.

"It's more like a secret exit," said Father. "The place with the statue was once connected to an underground water run. They call it a cenote, and the ancient priests used it for especially delicate sacrifices." He closed his eyes a moment. "It must have been a great honour to be sacrificed there."

"Is that where, um..." I pointed in the direction of the starboard engine room.

"No. Lady Itzel met her fate in the main temple, here." He drew a few more lines on the map. "Her lifeless body was thrown down the stairs, onto the apetlatl here." Father closed his eye a moment, then shook himself out of his memories. "That place has not been used for centuries. All those who knew of it are dead. And now, it will be our entrance into the City."

 

---

 
It took us, Carl, Brenda, and I, a whole day to march from Windsor Gardens to Anctapolepl, and around it to the North. Carl never strayed from my side, ready to catch me if I should stumble. Brenda walked ahead of us, trusting that I wouldn't, and willing to let it be my own affair if I did. Between the two of them, I walked on clouds.

We found a sheltered place to camp, under an overhanging rock wall, and I sat in the shadows with my rifle while they slept and the rains came down. The whole forest smelled fresh, preparing for a new day, and I sat through half of Brenda's watch, just enjoying the everlasting music, the rush of the leaves, the quiet noises of animals. A great sense of peace came over me as raindrops clattered all round, leaping up from the rocks and puddles. Through the trees, I saw a tapir and two calves make their way to the South. They passed me by without even noticing the embers of our small fire.

Brenda woke up, walked over to me. "Tennant. Go get some sleep, or you'll be a goddamn ghost tomorrow."

"I made tea. There's some left if you want it."

"Thanks."

I fell asleep as soon as I pulled the blanket over me.

 
We found the entrance after a few hours of searching with our binoculars, just as Father had described it. We lit a lamp and walked into the tunnel. Whoever had dug that tunnel knew what they were doing. The floor was level and smooth, and only Carl had to be careful not to bump his head on the ceiling. We walked on for about ten minutes, and then stopped. The way was blocked with heavy rocks. Brenda took the lamp from Carl and climbed onto the pile of rubble.

"Look at this." Brenda ran her fingers over a narrow ridge in the rocks. "Drill holes. They used dynamite to collapse this."

"Honestly," I said. "It's almost like Slate doesn't want us to sneak up on him. How inconsiderate."

Carl Clambered up as well. "I can feel a draft here."

"That's just adding insult to injury, I said. "Not only does he close the door, he does a lousy job of keeping the wind out."

Carl looked back at us. "Shall we try to dig through before we go home and, oh, go in through the crater?"

"May as well," I said, and joined Carl on the pile.

"Um. Are you sure you're..."

I looked at my brother. "Legs are rubbish. Nothing wrong with my arms. Look out below."

There was something oddly satisfying about pulling at heavy rocks and watching them roll away down to where Brenda and Carl would roll them further into the tunnel. The cool breeze on my face was enough to keep me going until I had enough for now and climbed down for a rest and one of the last of the roast beef sandwiches. Carl took my place and I watched him tear at the rocks, sending them rolling far into the tunnel. All Brenda and I could do was stand well away and watch him, and occasionally clear away the rubble. Progress was slow, but since we would otherwise have to sneak in through the front gate, or rappel down into the crater, it was worth the effort to keep going.

There was a pause in the activity, and Carl called down. "I can see the light!"

"Halleluia!" said Brenda. "Our Lord Christ Jesus shines still brighter the greater the darkness."

"Not in this temple, he doesn't," I said. "Here, it's Huitzilopochtli."

"Try saying that quickly three times."

"I'd rather not. If He manifests here, He'll rip all of our hearts out."

"See? That's what I like about Jesus. He lets us eat Him."

Carl turned to us. "By Jove, will you heathen women stop blaspheming?" He turned back, pulled out a few more rocks. "Quiet. There may be people about."

Carl carefully removed a few more rocks. The cavern beyond was hidden by a large boulder that had come rolling down the hill when this tunnel was blown up. There was only a small gap in between.

"I think I can just about squeeze through that," I said. "I can go and have a look outside."

Carl gave me a long look. "Don't get caught Alex."

I put my arms round Carl and held him close. "I won't."

 
I tied my hair up in a ponytail, stepped onto Carl's hands, and he lifted me up slowly, so that I could look round before climbing up into the light. I could see nobody, so I climbed out. I reached down and accepted my weapons belt and my rifle from Carl. I uncapped the scope, looked round. In front of me, the Great Temple was built at the top of a giants' stairway. Further Eastward, along the circle of the cavern, I could see the square openings, windowless. There was no sign of any occupants. To my right, there was the start of a tunnel, presumably leading all the way round the cavern wall to the other side. By my feet, my more broad-shouldered companions had started to widen it with the pointy back end of Brenda's tomahawk, so they could come out as well. Because they were trying to do it quietly, that would take a while.

"I'm going to see if I can find some humans to the east."

"Be careful," said Carl.

"Always am."

I slung my rifle on my back and carefully stalked out to the tunnel. The entrance had partially collapsed, but there was an opening small enough to crawl through. There was sight nor sound of anyone in the tunnel, and I walked into it, as quiet as I could. I can't run fast, but I can walk slowly if I need to. A little further along I could see light coming through a window. I stepped into a dwelling with a thick layer of dust on the floor. An old wooden table was in the middle, still solid and sound. Nobody had been here for years, but all it needed was a woman's touch to make it habitable. Accordingly, I moved the table to the window, extended the feet on my rifle and lay down, peering through my scope. I could just see around the great temple. The south side of the cavern wall had collapsed when Father ignited every grain of gunpowder he had made underneath it, and the King's richly decorated chambers had disappeared in a puff of smoke. People had come, cleared out the rubble, and built a large stone hut there, with a wooden roof. Inside the hut were brown-skinned people, sitting in neat rows, listening to someone inside.

I looked farther away, and saw rows upon rows of men with wooden weapons, practicing strikes and thrusts. A white man, wearing a white military uniform, walked between them. I increased the magnification on my scope to its maximum, and as he turned round to correct the form of one of his soldiers, I held my breath. I had seen this man before! He had been with Sabine Moreau in the Parisian restaurant, a lifetime ago. And here he was, training a new generation of Aztec Jäger. It looked like Magister Slate needed an army.

After a while, someone in the 'school' struck a bell, and everyone got up and walked outside. The teacher came out last. My aim shook as I saw who it was. Sabine Moreau was teaching a class full of girls, about the same age as the members of the Algernon Rifle Club. One of the girls tarried a bit, waiting for Sabine, chatting with her. She was doing that thing we women do, where she twirled a lock of her hair round her finger and let it go. Sabine laughed at something she said, gently touched her shoulder. It occurred to me that I could wipe that smile right off her face, just by moving my finger. I controlled the urge. I was only reconnoitering. Shooting my arch enemy through the head was a pleasure for later.

I had just decided I had learnt enough to report back to my fellow adventurers when I jumped at a very loud horn-blast. The noise came from the top of the temple, and echoed throughout the whole cavern. I dropped down from the table, aimed my rifle up, and saw. Magister Nicholas Slate, richly dressed in bright colours, came striding out of the temple. A complete hush fell as every man, woman, and child in the city turned to face Slate. With a loud booming voice, he addressed the crowd below. It took me a while to realise that he was speaking Latin, which presumably nobody in the city understood, not even I, being schooled in practical languages rather than classical ones. The words echoing in my head were not the words he spoke now, but words he had spoken before, one sentence burnt into my memory forever. Find out what she knows. The start of my days of agony at the hands of Hester Klemm. The words that caused the destruction of my knees and more. Without looking, I reached into my shirt, pulled out the bullet I had worn there ever since I came back from that hell they called the Eagle's Nest. I pulled the magazine from my rifle, loaded the bullet, pulled back the bolt, my hands moving as though on their own, as I stared up at the temple, listened to Slate's voice. I coldly calculated distance, windage, elevation, so that I would not miss, adjusted my scope. Here, scarcely five hundred yards away, was the cause of my pain, my suffering, the state of weakness I now endured, both in mind and body. I clicked off the safety, pulled back the bolt, to load the bullet I had reserved for just this occasion.

My finger was on the trigger.

Magister Nicholas Slate was a splinter of an inch away from death, and then, all alone in the cursed city of Anctapolepl, I decided that he should live for a little while longer.

With suddenly trembling fingers, I put the safety back on, closed my eyes, put my head down, and wept quietly. I could have killed him, but then I would have been trapped in this city. I would have been found. All that I knew would have been forced from me eventually. No amount of hatred could have prevented that. Then, my friends, my family would have been found, and they would die. Slate would have died, but I... I would have lost. It was almost like a set of scales. I hated Slate like I never have hated and never will hate anyone else ever again, but I loved my family more.

I wanted not to kill and then die.

I wanted to win.

I wiped my eyes, pulled the bolt again, caught the round as it came leaping out. I wanted to put it back on my neck, but I had broken the chain. With a sigh, I put the bullet in my pocket instead, unloaded my rifle, and made my way back to the secret exit where I found Carl and Brenda hidden behind the large stone, rifles at the ready.

"Let's go home," I said.

 

Philip Tennant: The task before us

Visitor in the night - Divine guidance - The last all-hands - The Alchemist and his Shield Maiden - At the end of the tunnel - Sound and fury, signifying everything

 

---

 

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borogroves
And the mome raths outgrabe

 

-- Lewis Carroll, "Jabberwocky"

 

---

 
As I lay dreaming, I heard a soft and gentle voice. The poem was the one I had given her, even the very accent was mine, but the tones were those of Itzel. Her voice was hardly above a whisper. I carefuly kept my eyes shut, not wanting to wake up. She touched my face, the blind side.

"Look at me, Philip Tennant. I will not disappear."

Her dark eyes, her soft smile, were exactly as I remembered them from the days she tended to my wounds in the city of Anctapolepl. A little nagging voice pointed out that she could be nothing but how I remembered her, but I ignored it and simply looked up at her.

"I have missed you."

She put her hands in her lap, sat up. "I was never far away, Philip." She sighed. "I should not have been angry with you. Even here, beyond life, my faith is still imperfect, I should have trusted in Him who I serve. I should have known that you would return."

"How could you have known, when I did not even know myself?"

Nothing but pure happiness sounded through in her laugh. "Do you know now what you must do?"

"Yes."

"Tell me."

"I must set your people free. Simply removing their leader is not enough. Simply leaving them to hide in a cave until the last of them has grown old and died is not enough. I must lead them back into the light, and show them the way."

"What 'way' would that be, Philip Tennant?"

"I honestly do not know. Does He whom you serve have anything to say?"

Itzel turned her face away for a few moments, closed her eyes.

"He says that you do know. You simply do not know that you know."

"Well, that is not very useful is it? The Truth is buried somewhere in the lumber room of my mind. These words of His sound so very wise and profound, but in the end they always turn out to be your own words before you straighten them out."

Itzel leant back with laughter, then bent over me, kissed my forehead. I could see in her eyes every in-between colour of the rainbow for which there is no name. "You may well be right, Philip Tennant. I still have no more words to give you."

"Thank you for your words, Itzel. I hope I will not disappoint you."

 

---

 
The next morning, we had a breakfast of jungle vegetables, roots, smoked meat, the last of the eggs, and English tea. I watched my small tribe putting it away, and felt grateful for every moment. Itzel and Iris could not, maybe would not carry us away until my task was finished, but until then, my children would be well fed and happy. I put down my empty teacup.

"My children, we have made ourselves comfortable here, but we did not come here to be comfortable. Today is the start of the next stage in our plans. What shall we do?"

Alexandra gathered up the plates and bowls and carried them into the galley. "We get rid of Slate. Maybe he's not torturing anyone just now, but he is still turning the whole city into his personal band of slaves." She came back into the mess hall. "The problem is killing him and getting away with it."

"Just kill their new leader and leave them to fend for themselves? That is what I did the last time, and I accomplished nothing. My ambitions are higher than that."

Brenda chuckled. "You plan to kill them all and let Huitzilopochtli sort them out? I like that plan. I haven't slaughtered a whole city for weeks."

"No, Miss Lee."

"Why not? It's what you did last time."

I looked at my hands. "I only blew up the rotten core. The King and his depraved priests. They might have put in some nicer leadership, but I misjudged them. What they had then was all they ever knew. It was their right and proper way. I failed to tell them there are better ways, and so they did what they had always done. I will not make that mistake again."

"Isn't Slate doing just that?" Carl picked up his teacup, saw it was empty, put it back down again. Fatin refilled it for him. "He is educating them. Martial arts, whatever Sabine was teaching them. I don't think human sacrifice is in Slate's Modus operandi."

"They are now worshipping him rather than their Old God," said Alexandra. "Hard to tell which one is more bloodthirsty."

I shook my head. "It was never simple blood thirst. They believed, and truly believed, that they were sending their sacrifices to the Sun God. Even the Spanish Inquisition, in all their cruelty, their torture, believed that they were saving their victims. Their victims would die in agony, but then they would know eternal bliss in Heaven rather than an eternity in Hell. What are a few days of suffering compared to that? In their own minds, they were doing the Lord's work."

Fatin looked at me. "There are people who like doing the Lord's work. They are not people that you want in your tribe. Their waters run black and bitter."

"What can we do, then?" said Carl. "Whatever we do, we must do soon. Slate is building an army. He is preparing for war upon the civilised world. We must stop him before it is too late."

"What we can, what we must do, is replace Slate with someone who does not wish to use them as pawns in a chess game of world domination," I said.

Brenda looked at me. "You have someone in mind for that job? Captain?"

I only smiled at her.

"And what makes you any different from any other paleface come here to tell the locals what's good for them?"

It was a good and honest question.

"I, Miss Lee, intend to leave. I don't want to be a King. I don't want to be a God. Once Slate is gone, and the People of Anctapolepl know better than to kill each other to appease the Sun, I will pack up my things, and go. I want to spend the rest of my days peacefully ferrying scientists to places where they can look in delight at the pretty flowers, animals, rocks, and other wonders of Nature. All this is a distraction."

"Sounds nice," said Brenda. "Do you know what they say about good intentions?"

"I do." I looked into Brenda's eyes. "May I be saved."

There was a long silence. Finally Alexandra stirred.

"I made a promise to Sabine Moreau." She pulled out the bullet she now kept in her pocket and looked at it, reading the name. "I am planning to keep it."

I shrugged. "It may be necessary to remove a few key pieces from the board. But not Slate. Not yet. First, we must defeat him."

"What is the plan?" said Carl.

I stood up. "I myself will enter the city of Anctapolepl, and wrestle this snake mind to mind. I have one advantage that Slate does not. I have lived among these people. I know them, and they will remember me."

"Father?" Alexandra looked at me with wide eyes. "You intend to go in there? Alone?"

"Of course not! I will need a shieldmaiden, to keep my feet and my mind from wandering."

Fatin frowned. "What is a 'shieldmaiden?'"

Brenda chuckled. "It's some stupid girl who gets to catch the first couple of blows heading for his High and Mightyness."

I gave a long sigh. "I hope that there will be no blows struck. I will convince the good people of Anctapolepl through words of kindness and through displays of our powers."

"Words of kindness. I don't think I can carry that off," said Alexandra.

We all looked at Brenda, who pretended not to notice. Finally, she raised her eyebrows.

"What, me?"

"You definitely look the part," said Carl. "I can lend you one of my kukris for that piratical flair."

Brenda's eyes shone. "Is that a promotion?"

"Cabin Boy and Dogsbody Brenda Lee," I said. "By the powers of the Captain of Lady I, I hereby promote you to Shield Maiden of..." I hesitated. Of what, exactly?

"El Dorado," said Carl. "Congratulations! Next round is on you."

 

---

 
Brenda and I were waiting. A few miles further along were the grain fields of Anctapolepl, where they grew the corn for their tlaxkalli, a kind of pancake normally filled with brown beans, tomatoes, and chilli, the staple food of the Aztec. Brenda had Stranger the Cat in her lap, and was patienty scratching her between the ears. Nobody had even suggested leaving her behind in Windsor Gardens. Surely, the rich city of Anctapolepl could provide a saucer or two of Alpaca milk.

Alexandra, Carl, and Fatin would by now be entering the city through the secret entrance, and making their temporary home in the collapsed cenote at the end of the tunnel.

Brenda looked up at me. "How many people are in there again?"

"About five thousand," I said. "We'll have to make a lot of noise even to get them to notice us."

"We can do that," said Brenda, knocking her knuckles on the barrel of black powder she was sitting on. "Might be a bit of a tall order to fight them off if they turn nasty, though. Even for a Marine."

"You are not truly here to protect me from five thousand Aztecs. You know that, don't you?"

We looked into each other's eyes for a few moments, until she gave a short nod.

"I know."

 
About an hour later, there was a bright flash of light coming from the very top of Mount Anctapolepl. Carl was using one of Lady I's heliographs to let us know that he and Alexandra were in position. We would give them an unmissable return signal. I turned to Brenda.

"Are you ready, Shield Maiden Brenda Lee?"

"To die for my Captain? Always!"

I held her shoulders. "We will not die in this place, Miss Lee! That is not our destiny. The very hand of the Gods guides us."

"Tell that to Joan of Arc," she said.

 
We walked till we were within sight of the gates. I straightened my Captain's hat, raised myself to my full height.

"How do I look?"

"Like an idiot," said Brenda.

"Excellent! Light the fuse!"

Brenda struck a match, lit the fuse, sent the barrel rolling down towards the gates. We started to walk towards an imminent explosion. Idiots indeed. The barrel jumped and skipped on the rocks till it bumped into the gates of Anctapolepl. In a hellish tumult of flames, and sound, and fury, it exploded. The gates of Anctapolepl came down in burning wooden splinters, and side by side, Brenda and I walked straight into the Dragon's maw.

 

Godfrey Pike: Uncertain fates

The Chair of Economical Alethiology - No news is bad news - Bad news is no news - If you want anything done right, do it yourself - A new mission

 

---

 

QUIET TIMES

 

Linda Davenport reporting

 

The exams are over, and the teachers as usual are going to take their sweet time grading them. The Food Riots have officially ended with most of the students happy with the foodstuffs appearing in their troughs. We are once more being taught Proper Science by Proper Scientists, and all, so it seems, is right with the world. With the Spring holidays coming up, many of us will be returning home to our parents. Despite Chef Oliver's best efforts, home cooking is still best.

 

Over the holidays, the Clarion will go into a brief recess, and if enough people supply interesting stories, it will return next May. On behalf of the entire Clarion staff, I wish everyone a good and restful holiday.

 

---

 
I was in my chambers, quietly marking History exams. I had about a hundred to go through, and it would take me a few days. The exciting life of the University professor. There was a knock on the door, and Jocelyn came in carrying a stack of newspapers. She dropped them onto my desk. I looked up at her.

"Nothing," she said.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. Not a sausage. Nothing that could possibly have something to do with Prometheus. Nothing about Lady I. Not in the Gazette, not in the Herald Tribune, not in the Times, nothing in the Daily Bugle, not even in the Arkham Advertiser."

"What about Khartoum wanting our professors?"

Winston had been dropping me the occasional message on the diplomatic bickering between the Moghadam household and the Queen's servants. Khartoum held that the Tennants' heads should be put on a spike and delivered to them, and Westminster quietly explained that the only evidence they had presented were the rather confused witterings of some French girl who seemed to have discharged herself from hospital the day after, and run off into the Blue. Khartoum explained that evil imperialistic Brits had abducted, mistreated, and murdered the defenceless young wife of Ahmad Moghadam, and Westminster pointed out that there was no body found, and that Mrs. Moghadam might just have wandered off by herself. They expressed their wishes that no evil had befallen her in the dangerous places of Sudan. Khartoum demanded again that all the Lady I passengers be rendered unto them so the Truth could be unearthed, and Westminster told them, in the most tactful of terms, to go forth and multiply. The last word had not been spoken, but the words were mostly variations on the same theme.

"Nothing either. They're not going to send Enderby back to that place, are they?"

"Most certainly not," I said. "Well, thank you for going through all of those."

"How are you doing with your marking?" She craned her neck to look at the paper. I would have to teach her how to read upside down.

I looked at Jocelyn over my glasses. "Some of you have the historical sense of a goldfish."

"Did you do mine yet?"

"Can't tell you, I'm afraid. It would be unethical."

In fact, Jocelyn's history exam was hidden, marked, under the blotter on my desk. I was, after all, teaching her to find out things that people would not want her to find out. She had done reasonably well, got a few dates wrong, but understood the gist of the matter. Which she would find out the first class, just like everybody else.

There was a noise at the door, and Wainwright came walking in.

Jocelyn gave him a nod. "Agent Wainwright."

"Miss Vale. How is life as a daring spy in training?"

"I am reading newspapers. I am reading all the newspapers."

Wainwright picked up one from Jocelyn's stack. "What, even the Arkham Advertiser? Good Lord. Desperate times indeed."

"Speaking as a reporter, the Arkham Advertiser need to hire someone to slap their reporters' heads every time they write the word grotesque."

"Wait a minute." Wainwright pointed at a small by-line article on the front page. "Search for research vessel A-419ARK stopped. Isn't that the call sign of Boreas?"

"It is," I said. "Dropped off Sparker on his return from Paris. Something happened to them?"

Wainwright spread out the newspaper on my desk, and we all read the article. Boreas had gone missing over South America. Nothing had been found. Nobody knew what had happened, though supernatural causes were not ruled out, which didn't surprise me. In my experience, the Advertiser only rules out supernatural causes when a natural cause supplies a written affidavit, and even then they will suspect it is a cover for something beyond this world.

"Jocelyn?" I jotted the date of Boreas' disappearance on a scrap of paper. "Be a dear and fetch us the Advertisers round that date?"

Jocelyn trotted out of the door, and I gave Wainwright a look.

"South America is a large and dangerous place," I said.

"It is," Wainwright's eyes looked at me steadily. "What would be the odds on two airships getting lost there?"

"Messrs. Ladbroke would not make a penny on such a bet. Unless one bets that they got lost at the same time. In the same place."

"Being shot at by the same people, perhaps?"

We didn't need to mention the possibility of the Tennant's bones lying somewhere on the jungle floor. Jocelyn came back bearing more newspapers. Miss Vale is a wonderful cure for uncomfortable silences. There was only one article in one of the papers, noting that the airship Boreas, flagship of Miskatonic University's fleet, had gone missing over uncharted territory in South America. There was a small list of other airships and expeditions going missing in that area, and all that needed to be sorted out was which grotesque ancient cosmic horror was responsible. The article showed a distinct lack of concrete information, which incurable cynics like myself might suspect to be intentional.

"Do you think that they are..." Jocelyn looked at us both in turn.

With her decision to join the ranks of those who must face and defeat our fellow humans, Jocelyn had given up sugar in her tea, and in her view on the world. She had to learn to take the bitter truth, and like it.

"Airships do not last long in wars," said Wainwright. "Their crews know this. That's why there are so few of them on board."

"Let's not declare them dead before we have a wreck or a body," I added.

Jocelyn stared at the tower outside my window. "I hope Miss Tennant is allright."

"So do we all, Miss Vale."

 

---

 
I knocked on the door of our new Professor of Mental Studies, and she let me into her chambers. There were still a few unopened trunks. On one wall was a row of interesting face masks, some a pale white, others fasioned like cats. Underneath was an abstract painting of two human figures embracing.

"Doctor McGee," I said. "Thank you for seeing me."

"Oh, Lutitia please." She put me in a chair a bit more comfortable than the ones I had for guests. "My friends just call me Tits."

She looked at me intently, with an amused glint in her eye. I decided that I did not want to play poker with her.

"Why?" I said, simply.

She laughed. "Well, Dr. Pike..."

"Godfrey."

"Godfrey." Lutitia sat up straight, hands in her lap. "You may have noticed something about me."

"I have," I said. "You are a woman."

"Heh. I am, aren't I?" She bent forward a little. "When a girl is gifted by Nature with a personality like mine, the boys are sure to notice it. And make appreciative comments. And maybe risk a good slapping by letting their hands wander. And yes, that's shameful, but what can you do? People like tits. They're a secondary sex characteristic, and we've been conditioned to like them since before we climbed down from the trees. So there are two things you can do. One is trying to hide them." She shook her head. "You'll walk around and every time someone notices you, you die of embarrassment. I pass on that. The other thing is... show them. You nearly shove them in everybody's faces and whenever someone makes a lewd remark, you throw it right back in their faces, and then they will be the ones who are embarrassed."

I gave a little nod.

"That's not ideal either, mind you. You do get a name for being... well. But I chose not to hide myself. And here I am."

"I see," I said.

"And I do enjoy the attention, I won't lie. So what can I do for you, Godfrey? I'm thinking you are here for young Miss Vale?"

"Yes. You spoke with her?" I looked at Lutitia's masks for a moment. "I suppose I want to know if she's the right person for a life of danger and deceit."

"Absolutely," said Lutitia. "Not a doubt. She can't wait."

"Really? How do you know?"

Lutitia laughed out loud. "She tried on every one of my masks, and it was like she flowed into them. Became them. That girl was meant to play roles, and the Ipswich Shakespearean Society is far too tame for her blood."

"But is she ready to see all the horrors? See people killed, their faces beaten to a bloody mess, their breasts slashed, fingernails torn out, legs broken... She is still so innocent. How will she cope?"

"She won't. Nobody does," Lutitia looked into my eyes. "This is not really about her, is it?"

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

Lutitia's voice was low, quiet, gentle. "You are trying to drive her away. Make her pick a safer career. You have lost someone, haven't you? Someone like her, or enough like her to remind you."

I breathed in. Breathed out. Looked up at her. "Yes," I said finally.

"And she was ill-treated like you said."

"That, and more."

"And you don't want that to happen to Jocelyn." She reached out and put her hand on my arm. "I don't blame you, Godfrey. I don't want her to suffer either. She is lovely. But she is also determined to follow the path you have shown her. She will, with or without you." Lutitia smiled. "The way she was talking about the mission you took her on. In a whorehouse? It was the best evening of her whole life."

I stared at her. "She told you about that? I have to talk to her about operational secrecy. You really don't talk to others about your missions."

Lutitia sneered. "Don't you dare hold that against her, Godfrey Pike. Don't you dare deny her her future because she talked to me. I had a need to know. You wanted to know if she was fit to be a spy. She is. Convincingly. She could hardly convince me without talking about it, could she?"

"I'll let her off with a 'Don't do it again,' then."

"You do that. Do you need this in writing?"

"That won't be necessary. Thank you."

"You're welcome," said Lutitia. As I got up, she walked round her desk, put her hand on my shoulder. "And Godfrey? If you need to talk about this... my door is always open."

 

---

 
Algernon University is not a lively place during the holidays, and the kitchen works on a skeleton crew. In the spirit of egalitarianism and frugality, the remaining students get fed the same grub as we the Faculty. For us, it means slightly simpler fare, for the students, better food than normal. Jocelyn and I were heading for lunch. I had been teaching her about the proper way to travel without attracting attention to oneself. How to dress, how to behave, what modes of transport to use and when. We walked up to the food counter. I was served a simple lamb stew. Jocelyn asked for the vegetarian meal, and got a steaming bowl of kedgeree. She gave the dinner lady a mournful look, and we found a table.

"She took her vorpal spoon in hand," she said. "Long time the manxome food she sought. So rested she, by the haddock tree, and stood a while in thought."

She started eating. As the Prussian poet said, Erst kommt das Fressen, dann kommt die Moral.

"Pike!"

I looked round to see Prof. Adleman coming towards us with a tray of food.

"I need to talk to you about, um." He looked at Jocelyn. "Certain messages."

"Please join us," I said. "Miss Vale is in the know."

"She is?"

Jocelyn pushed a piece of fish to the side, smiled at him. He made a kind of mental shrug, and continued.

"We've been able to decypher some of the harder ones." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper. "They are using a polyalphabetic substitution cypher. Do you remember the Caesar cypher?"

"I do." I turned to Jocelyn. "That is when you shift every letter a few spaces over in the alphabet."

"I know," said Jocelyn, forkfull of rice half way to her mouth. "Used it to send secret messages to Nigel."

"Well, use something better," said Adleman. "It's trivially simple to break."

"My last message was 'I can't be bothered to kill you. Go away.' Haven't needed to hide anything since."

Adleman stared.

"Miss Vale is joking," I said.

"Pigs will eat anything," said Jocelyn. "Anything."

Adleman shook his head. "I am choosing to believe that Miss Vale is joking. Anyway. Our friends have changed to using a variation on the Vigenère cypher, invented by a monk named Giovan Batista Belaso. Rather than just shifting each letter by the same amount, it shifts every letter by a different amount, depending on a code word. That way, you can't assume that the most frequent letter will be an E, and all the letters will be substituted differently."

"That's clever," said Jocelyn.

Adleman grinned. "But not clever enough. When you do a thing like this, you need to use a long code word. A whole book if you can. And that's what our friends did wrong. Observe."

He pointed at a jumble of letters on the paper, underlined two parts.

BSEAYLASIPBULJIADXBSEBSEAYLASIPRIZPAS
"Note that here are eighteen spaces between the two repeating phrases. That means that there are two similar words in the plaintext eighteen spaces apart, and therefore also that eighteen is a multiple of the length of the code word. So the key can be one, two, three, six, nine, or eighteen characters long."

He sat back with a satisfied smile. We both stared at him, until he took pity on us poor fools and continued.

"We can now treat the cypher as an interwoven set of Caesar cyphers, and solve the cypher like that." He sneered at us. "Decrypting this piece of text is left as an exercise to the reader."

Jocelyn looked at him with large brown eyes. "Oh Professor. You are so much cleverer than we are. Surely you will have the text for us already?"

Adleman chuckled. "Yes, Miss Vale, I have. Would you like to read it?"

"Oh yes please!" Jocelyn nearly bounced in her seat.

Adleman laughed and pulled out the transcript. He gave it to Jocelyn. As she read it she turned pale, and wordlessly handed it to me.

EAGLES NEST DISCOVERED BY ENEMY
THE AIRSHIP LADY I AND
THE AIRSHIP BOREAS
ENGAGED IN FIREFIGHT
BOTH AIRSHIPS DESTROYED
NO SURVIVORS ON BOREAS
WRECK OF LADY I NOT FOUND
BUT SEEN RAPIDLY LOSING
ALTITUDE OVER FOREST ASSUMED
DESTROYED LOCATION OF EAGLES
NEST SAFE SIGNED MAGISTER SLATE
"Oh God no," said Jocelyn.

 

---

 
"This does not make sense!" said Wainwright. "Why on Earth would Boreas be shooting at Lady I? And vice versa for that matter."

"There is only one explanation," I said. "One or the other was taken over by the Enemy."

"Either that, or the Arkham lot have become the enemy."

"Possible." I thought a moment. "They will not respond to a firmly worded letter, I expect. We will have to go to Arkham and find out what is going on."

Wainwright looked at me. "Will we be taking Miss Vale along? Could be fun."

I took a deep breath. On the one hand, this could get dangerous. On the other hand, it would be a very good learning opportunity for her.

"I'll go talk to her."

 
"Are you joking?!"

"I assure you, I'm not. I have to go to Arkham, and so does Wainwright. It would be silly to leave you here reading newspapers when you could be in the thick of it with us. One condition..."

"Note from parents?"

"Note from parents."

 
To this day, I still believe Jocelyn ran all the way home to get her note, then ran back. It arrived on my desk with the ink still wet. I looked up into her eyes, and never have I seen anyone happier than Jocelyn.

"Very well then. Miss Vale? We are needed. We will take the evening British Overseas Airship Company flight to New York, and from there we take the train to Arkham. I think we'll try to pass you off as my daughter."

"I..." Jocelyn grinned like a madwoman. "I'm going to need some clothes to wear. I don't have a spy outfit!"

"Of course," I said.

Jocelyn made big brown eyes at me, held up her hand.

"Daddy?" she said.

I kept from laughing for three whole seconds.

"Come with me. There is a shop I need to take you."

 

---

 
Will Captain Philip Tennant be successful in taking the place of Magister Nicholas Slate and truly freeing the people of Anctapolepl? Will the secrets of Boreas' demise be uncovered? Will Lady I ever fly again? Are the Tennants doomed to a lifetime of smoked tapir steak?

 
This will all be made clear in the next expedition report, titled "The Flight Of The Serpent."

 
Personally, I wouldn't get my hopes up too high.