The Algernon Expeditions: Fire From The Gods
Fatin: Up among the clouds
Fatin of the Ajuru - Lady Iris and Lady Itzel - Home comforts - Friends and family - Ready to hunt
ARRIVALS AT THE GATE
Rina Prescott reporting
The arrival of new people at the gates of Algernon University never fails to excite us with stories of far away, in distance or in experience. In the memory of your reporter, that of Mrs. Fatin Tennant must hold first place as the life most unlike our own. Mrs. Fatin Tennant is the wife of Mr. Carl Tennant, whose sister is Miss Alexandra whom you all know from earlier articles as the founder of the Algernon Rifle Club. She has joined her husband on our cold English shores from the tropical regions of Sudan, where her tribe roamed the banks of the White Nile in South Sudan. Mrs. Fatin was kind enough to answer a few of my questions. Her first impression of England was, unsurprisingly, the climate. We could all do with a bit of extra warmth, so Scientists, you have a job. As it happens, the loud noises of our industrial civilisation do not bother her, nor her adorable son named Raage, who sleeps right through it. The hardest part of her new life here is the British detachment. As she put it, 'So many people, and they look so alone.' In our defence, I can say that Mrs. Fatin does enjoy the warmth and kindness of those who do overcome their reservations. You will be pleased to know that Mrs. Fatin's tribe, named the Ajuru, do not practice cannibalism, and that those tribes who do are looked down upon as unsophisticated. Mrs. Fatin is trying to improve her knowledge of English, so do not hesitate to talk to her, it is quite safe.
I am Fatin of the Ajuru. I write these words so people can learn of my life. I also need to learn the words because I now live with my man Carl and my son Raage in England. The people in England live in houses, but not I, Carl, Alexandra, and their father Philip. We live in a dirigible, Lady I. She has her name from two women. One is the mother of Alexandra and Carl. Her name was Iris. She was shot years ago by bad men who tried to take their things. The other woman was called Itzel. She helped Philip when he lost his leg. Carl was not happy to hear of Itzel, but he is easy now. He does not talk about it. It is like cooking with hot stones under ground. Do not walk on it. Do not dig with your hands.
I love Lady I. Carl and I have put things from my home in our cabin. We can look out through the window and see the world outside. Everything looks small when Lady I is flying high. Raage looks happy when he is by the window and looks out. Maybe he likes the sight, or maybe he is happy because he is full of milk. Our cabins are in the back. We have the big cabin because there are three of us. It is like our tent in Sudan, but we don't have to take it down when we move. It moves with us. Carl and I sleep in a soft bed. Raage sleeps next to us in his own bed. Sometimes, I take him into our bed so I can hear him sleep.
Alexandra is in the cabin next to us. She has two beds, one above the other. She sleeps in the top bed and puts her things in the bottom bed. She has many things. It looks strange to me to have more things than you can carry. She says that many of the things were in their house in England. When you leave for a long time, and then come back, your things are still there. That is not the way in Sudan. You only have what you can carry and when you walk away, what you leave is for the forest.
Nazeem came to Lady I a few days ago. He is a witch doctor. He wants to make us believe he knows things. I make him believe that I am stupid. I don't believe him. I don't know if he believes me. Carl says that he did find Mr. Riley without looking hard. I love Carl, but he believes many things that he shouldn't. Nazeem does not sleep like us. He sits in the hold of Lady I and closes his eyes. Sometimes, he talks about fire and air and earth and water. I like Nazeem even if he is a witch doctor. I feel in my heart that he means us well. Still, my heart was wrong about Raage and told me he would be a girl. I want Nazeem to be good. He is fun.
Mr. Riley came to Lady I when we were in Cairo. He smells of death. He had to hide with a dead man for three days. Even now he is clean, Riley still smells of death. He scares me. His eyes are cold. Alexandra says that we help him to keep everybody safe. Riley does not care that people are safe. He wants something else. Riley was hurt by bad men, and now he wants to hurt them. I knew a man like that. Men from another tribe burnt him and cut him to make him tell them things. Then, he tricked them and ran away. We found him and bound his wounds. All that he wanted was to hurt the men who had hurt him. Then, he forgot that we were not those men. He tried to fight Geedi the Hunter, but Geedi was too strong. He was in our tribe only for a short time. Elder Hanad said that he was sick in his head, and told him to leave. The man then tried to kill Elder Hanad. Nuune, Odawaa and Geedi took their spears and killed him. We left for the next camp that day and never returned to that place.
In our small tribe, there is now a man who maybe is as sick in the head as that man was, back home. We can't make him leave because we need him to stop the bad men who want to hurt us.
Lady I now flies over Sudan. We look for the men taken from the tower in Paris. A man called Slate makes them do bad things. We need to find them and take them back to England. I don't know what bad things they do. Carl tried to tell me, but I don't understand. They try to learn something bad. It could kill many people at one time. It scares me, but Carl tells me not to worry. Everything will be fine.
Sudan is where my old tribe is. In my heart, I see them walk, sing, making camp, and I miss them, but I will never go back to my tribe. I am not the Fatin I was. I know things. I have my English clothes. I drink English tea. I eat English things. But I miss their faces, their smiles. I miss talking to them, face to face, not in my head. But if I go back, I will never fly with Lady I again. The bridge is the best place in the world. I take off my shoes when I am at the wheel, so I can feel Lady I running. I can feel her breathe in to go up, breathe out to go down. Lady I likes to run through the air, and play with the clouds. Carl says she is very fast. When I ask her to go fast, she eats much. When my tribe travels, we walk slow to walk far. Running is for hunters, or when something hunts you.
We are hunters, but people also hunt us. They have tried to kill Alexandra twice. They will try again. Riley killed the woman who did this to Alexandra. He made her tell him who told her to kill Alexandra. Alexandra didn't want to say more. I didn't want to ask more. Alexandra is a good woman, but she has done bad things when not doing them would be worse. There are times when you must. Raage's water runs clear, because he has never done bad things. Every time you do something bad, sand or dung or blood is thrown into the water, and it becomes dark. When you do a good thing, fresh water is thrown in, but the water never becomes clear again. I know that my water runs dark in some places. I have not been kind sometimes. But there is no blood on my hands.
There is blood on Carl's hands. People are not wrong to be afraid of him when he is angry. When the other tribe took me to be their wife, Carl came and killed many of them with his guns. I have never been more afraid in my life, but he is my man, and sometimes, you need someone to fight for you. I am glad that it is Carl.
Alexandra just gave me a cup of tea and told me that we are going down to look at a place where they have been before, a mine where they dig for the stones that Lady I eats to fly fast. The last time they were here bad men tried to kill them. Why do we go to these places? Stupid to ask. We go there because we are the hunters. Those who do not hunt kudu because the lions can eat them, do not eat kudu, but only roots and leaves. I will go to the bridge now and see if there are kudu, or if there are lions.
Godfrey Pike: The quiet life
Introductions - Operation safe and sound - Rifle practice - Who do you think you are kidding?
FIRE AT WILL: CHANGES AT THE RIFLE CLUB
Linda Davenport reporting
As most of you are aware, Miss Alexandra Tennant has had to relinquish her place at the Algernon Rifle Club. Much to the relief of the club members, the mantle has passed to Dr. Godfrey Pike. In addition to his most important job in keeping our powder dry, our aim straight and our shooters sharp, he lectures Recent History, and has assumed the position of Head of Security at Algernon University, a new appointment in the light of the recent attacks on Miss Alexandra. It is to be hoped that his tenure will be a restful one, or as Dr. Pike refers to it, "A retirement without the immobility so similar to death."
As for the rifle club itself, under Dr. Pike's chairmanship, it has grown to twenty-three members, and much to everyone's surprise, boys have been detected amongst our number. We allow them to carry our rifles for us, a job for which their superior strength qualifies them satisfactorily. The practice of rewarding them with extra bullets must, however, be discouraged, as it allows them to practice more, and the thought of any of them achieving a higher score than us girls does not bear entertaining.
Dear Winston,
I have finally achieved what you have always recommended to me: a quiet job in a quiet place, far away from the excitement, the chases, the flying bullets and the sudden loud noises. I am now the Head of Security in the small but well-respected Algernon University at Ipswich. I have also received an honorary doctorate in History, so I am now Dr. Godfrey Pike, and I'll thank you to address me as such in person and in writing, perhaps with a small bow so you know your place as an uneducated boor. We academics do appreciate some decorum.
Idyllic as this situation may seem, I have a good reason for boring you with this rather detailed account of the goings-on. Things are not as quiet as they may seem, and I am not talking about the young lads sneaking into the girls' dormitories. There has been violence done in this quiet place, having to do with a rather ill fated expedition mounted by the late Prof. Hammond of Arkham University. One of our professors, a Dr. Alan Wadcroft, the flame of endeavour burning brightly in his breast, set off to save the poor souls of that brave band of Colonials, and came back trailing an awful lot of trouble. Several attempts were made on the life of a rather attractive young lady named Alexandra Tennant, which is just not on. She has now taken herself right into the lion's den with her family, on board of their airship named the Lady I after their mother. I would have advised against that, but the Tennants are a hardy bunch, and their safety is ultimately in their own capable hands.
Of the members of Wadcroft's expedition, three persons remain at Ipswich, and they are my responsibility. First, Prof. Dr. Alan Wadcroft, in Geology, Alchemy, and Biology. I never had much to do with him during my time here, but he seems like a personable old chap, tough as an old boot, and almost bright enough to confide my tactical information to. I hold off only because I haven't actually seen him in action.
Second is Prof. Dr. Margaret Enderby. Good heavens, Winston, she is a handfull and a half, teaching physics, anthropology and archaeology, and widow of the world famous crypto-zoologist Gerald Enderby, whom she accompanied on many of his searches for creatures that don't exist. It is said that she herself shot some kind of cryptid that killed her unfortunate husband. Wilhelm Richard Wagner would have worshipped at her feet. Lest you think that she is some kind of frightful harpy, let me assure you that she is the nicest lady one could hope to meet.
Third and finally, the esteemed Mr. Andrew Parsons. He is a bit of an odd one. He stands at least six feet six or seven tall, and is nearly as broad. He bends steel into shape with his bare hands, and is without exaggeration the most brilliant engineer England has ever produced. This has come at the cost of any human empathy or understanding. I have given up trying to explain that his life is in danger. He maintains that there is no danger, as there is no cogent reason to harm him. We both have escorted people who see attackers behind every tree, Winston. Mr. Parsons comes out the other way. He has an assistant in the rather pleasant Miss Felicia Sunderland, who is his guiding light in a world filled with incomprehensible humans.
Absent at this point, for the sufficient reason that everybody here seems to hate his guts, is Mr. James T. Riley, a Yank, and a spy for Arkham University. I suppose he is fairly competent and experienced, but has had the bad luck to fall into enemy hands, and those hands were not gentle. I met him briefly while en route from Paris to Ipswich, and he's a heartless bastard. I'm not entirely sure where his loyalties lie, even whether he has any loyalties. He seems to be motivated purely by revenge, and we both know where that can lead. The last message from the Lady I put him on board there. Mildly worrisome, Winston.
Of our enemies, I'm afraid I know very little. Prof. Wadcroft has given me a copy of the expedition reports for the expeditions into Africa and France. All I know is that they call themselves Prometheus after the Titan who stole the fire from the gods. They have an unhealthy interest in a poisonous variation of pitchblende. Madame Curie identified it and told us to keep it in a leaden box to avoid being poisoned. Alchemy puts its practitioners in dangers as acute as bullets, it would seem. Their leader, a Mr. Nicholas Slate, seems to think that it has some kind of energy that may be harnessed to make coal as such obsolete. Their organisation is capable of organising a complicated assassination attempt by getting someone on our payroll with the run of the whole University. You can depend that that sort of thing will not continue as long as I am Head of Security here.
Meanwhile, when I am not reading recent history, we are on the most recent Franco-Prussian War, I am teaching a group of young boys and girls the noble art of marksmanship. Which reminds me, Winston, some of my pupils are good enough that they would benefit from using a proper sniper rifle rather than the relics we are using now. Could you persuade Quentin to part with one or two? That would be splendid. If he makes trouble, just remind him of Brindisi. He'll know.
Well, Winston, I'm afraid that this is all the information I have for you at this point. I will keep my ear to the ground and my eyes wide open, hoping always for news from the Tennants. I'm off to the dining hall for a large portion of nostalgia with mash, peas, and slightly doubtful gravy.
Yours,
Doctor Godfrey Pike.
Dear Winston,
Thank you very much for the rifles, they will be put to good use in my little club. That is, when I get the bullets that go with them. I can imagine Quentin chuckling to himself. There is no gratitude left in this world, Winston.
Meanwhile, I have started settling in here. I have established a rapport with the Porters, especially a huge man named Barker who is the primus inter pares of this fine body of men. The Porters are Algernon University's main department for Getting Things Done, from decorations at festivities, carpentry, crowd control, right up to emergency medical aid and guard duties when things get scary. They were also the people who hired a Prometheus assassin, but I checked their paperwork and I'm not surprised they were fooled. Our adversaries are not idiots. The only error they made was not realising that it takes the mail boat more than a week to travel from Cairo to London. To prevent this from happening again, I've asked to be in the review committee for new hires.
Most of the Porters are ex-army, or at least Home Guard. Very good to see that they're not stupid. They were just not prepared for a determined attack against us. It puzzles me why the enemy haven't given up yet. Their attempt to kill off all witnesses at Paris has failed, they failed to shoot Lady I out of the skies, and they can depend that any secrets they did not want Wadcroft and Company to divulge, have been. Their concern seems not to be what they may have done till now, but what they are going to do. Neither Wadcroft nor Enderby can imagine what that might be. Parsons? He will just be doing what he always does. I've seen some of his creations, Winston. They range from completely useless to thoroughly frightening. What are they afraid of, though? That is the question. I'm hoping for some more information from our American friend, but he may not be able or willing to provide it.
On a lighter note, my small band of trained assassins are making excellent progress. Most of them can now hit a bullseye reliably at two hundred yards with a Rifle, Short, Magazine, Lee-Enfield. Especially Miss Carrie StJohn shows promise. She is the one I was thinking of when I asked for some proper rifles. Truly, the female of the species is more deadly than the male. The only boy who shows as much promise is young Mr. Nigel Arterton. We now have twenty-four members, and we're having to practice in batches. For now, I can still impress them with my pistol shooting but at some point, the students will surpass the teacher. I have, without telling them, entered the Algernon Rifle Club in a tournament in Folkestone in three months' time. I'm sure they'll do us proud. We have a rather nice shooting range here, with a maximum range of about five hundred yards, so I'll be able to train them up to tournament standards. When Miss Alexandra returns, she will know that we have not been wasting our time in her absence.
Yours,
Godfrey.
P.S. Damn it Winston, they are trying again. Just as I was getting ready to post this, Barker informed me that some rather nasty chemicals have gone missing from the Alchemy department. I went there, and the Head, Prof. Dr. Derek Lowe, informed me that some unpronounceable compounds have been stolen. I asked Wadcroft to translate for me, and the old fart actually turned pale. Apparently, a single vial of this Devil's cocktail can eat its way through steel beams in seconds. I have to admire these alchemists' nerves, Winston, to work with these hellish chemicals day in day out, and never dying more than strictly necessary. I asked Wadcroft what this stuff might be used for, and I think our intrepid thief might be wanting to get into one of the University vaults. Which means that poor Wainwright will have the unenviable job of standing guard over them. I had to remind him that not all jobs for a spy are watching pretty ladies on a shopping trip. It also means that I won't get any sleep tonight either, and tomorrow, I will be as sleepy as my History students. This is starting to look less and less like retirement, Winston.
G.
P.P.S. I can report a partial success. We succeeded in preventing damage to the University vaults, but not to the person who intended to get into them. I was guarding the East safe, while Wainwright was on the South one. At around four in the morning, he came over to me looking pale as a sheet. He took me to the safe and showed me what remained of our amateur Alchemist. Wainwright observed him entering the vault room, watched him go to a specific vault, and reach into his inside pocket. Wainwright pulled out his revolver and confronted him, but the thief pulled out a knife and charged him. Knowing that a non-lethal shot might not stop him, Wainwright blocked his knife hand and tried to dissuade him with a sturdy blow to the guts. This, unfortunately, broke the vial the man was carrying, and the chemical burned a hole clean through his body. I don't blame poor Wainwright for losing his dinner at that, and let me assure you that I didn't wish this kind of an end to that poor misguided soul either.
We tightened our belts, got a stretcher, and carried the remains to the infirmary, where Dr. Bernhardt performed an initial autopsy. It was a man in his late twenties, brown of skin, possibly Egyptian or Moroccan, though he was smart enough not to carry anything to identify him. He bore no tattoos, nor any other distinguishing features, but no doubt Dr. Bernhardt will be able to tell us more once he continues his autopsy in the morning. I may not be at my best in tomorrow's history class, as I doubt I will be able to sleep having seen what I saw today. Wainwright is worse off, though. He's well earned the pittance we pay him here. I am posting this now, and will send you all the information that I can get my hands on when I get it.
Yours, shakily,
Godfrey.
Dear Winston,
I am much recovered after last night's excitement, and I have information. Dr. Bernhardt's autopsy revealed nothing much. "Cause of death: Missing vital organs due to acid." Our Doctor does have a rather macabre sense of humour. A study of his clothes, though, showed that our unfortunate thief was not Moroccan, not Egyptian, but Sudanese. He was wearing undergarments coloured with a dye originating from Khartoum. This dye is used by the lower classes there, not being very expensive, and more importantly, pointless to export. The knife he was using was an English seaman's knife made in Sheffield, purchased locally. Also in his possession were a rather advanced set of lock picks of unknown origin, and a rather nasty piece of cheese wire for the purpose of strangling people. I think we can conclude is that we have here a trained operative from Sudan, and we may want to show his picture to some interested parties there.
Have our relations with Mr. Bouzid Moghadam improved to the point where he may be willing to offer us some insights? I read the story about none other than our very own Miss Alexandra Tennant breaking and entering into his mansion to retrieve some information there. He was understandably a bit disappointed with us, but this situation may be enough to convince him that co-operating would be good. Unless of course he is already in this game, and on the side of Prometheus. Not a possibility to be overlooked.
I'm aware that our case may not be at the top of the priority list of Her Majesty's Secret Service, and I'm most grateful for your assistance up to now, if only because records entrusted to you are proof against going missing, but perhaps you could see your way clear to asking some of our Khartoum agents to devote some attention to this.
Yours,
Godfrey.
Dear Winston,
I'm afraid the Khartoum authorities are shrouding themselves in clouds of silence, and are unwilling to discuss our business with us. I think we need someone to mediate on our behalf, possibly without revealing that we are on the other side of the mediator. We are running into dead ends, Winston. I would prefer to get some sort of handle on this before one of the members of the Wadcroft expedition ends up dead. I may not get a tenure if that were to happen.
Meanwhile, I have tried to gain access to the vault that our thief was interested in, but I have not been granted permission. Mildly disappointing, Winston. You'd think that it were in the interest of Algernon University to allow me in to see if anything in there could have invited Prometheus' avarice, but no. I have no doubt that some pompous jobsworth feels like making his influence felt. I'll ask Malcolm Munroe, our Chancellor. Surely he can get that damn vault open? Most annoying. Do we really need someone of our own to come to harm before I get the cooperation I need? I pray not.
There is someone at the door. Will finish this later.
Well, Winston, Prof. Margaret Enderby just earned herself my respect and admiration. I bumped into her at the cafeteria queue, and we had lunch together. She knew about our little adventure, and I told her we weren't allowed to look in the vault.
"Which vault?" she asked.
I gave her the number. She looked at me strangely.
"That's my vault! Who said you couldn't get in?"
I told her the name of the Dean, with the apprehension of having doomed him to some terrible fate. The look in her eyes, Winston! I don't know what fate she put Dean Black to, but she showed up at my door an hour later, waving the vault key.
"Let's go," she said, and I followed her to the catacombs.
She opened the door, lit a lamp and walked in, with me on her heels. Good Lord, Winston, it looked like something out of a horror novel. Wild beasts of who knows what origin lined the walls, ranging in size from a small dog to a fully grown bear. She must have seen me staring, because she looked at me with an expression on her face that combined a deep long-lasting anger with a grim smile.
"My late husband's collection, Mr. Pike. All of them, from the Yeti to the Homo Wukong, to the Coatl, determined to be fakes by so-called experts who never set foot outside of their laboratories." She scoffed. "Gerald never took my advice of stuffing a few of them and adding them to the collection. But anyway."
She led me to a desk, and together we hefted a standard expedition trunk onto it.
"The Hammond Expedition findings. Unless Prometheus have developed a sudden interest in crypto-zoology, I'd guess that is what they're after. God only knows why, though. Wadcroft read through some of it and it's complete gibberish."
"But Prometheus may not know that," I said. "And even fools may occasionally stumble upon something useful."
"Maybe Prometheus think there's something useful in that nonsense," said Margaret. "And the question is, do they want to have this information, or..."
"Do they want us not to have it?" I added.
"Either way, in that case, throw this garbage out on the street," said Margaret. "Publish it, or even better, let the Arkham lot publish it, and be done with it. Then everybody will have it and chasing after us will be futile."
"But what if it is all gibberish? Then Prometheus will think that we have kept something valuable back and come back here to get it. Even if we put out a story in the paper that this vault and everything in it was burnt to a crisp, they won't believe it."
"Damn. Nothing to be done about it, then. Well, all I can think of is to actually read all of this and see if there is something in there that a bunch of power-crazed maniacs could want. I can probably do the Physics related things. Wadcroft can do the Alchemy. We may have to get someone in from Arkham to do the spiritual mumbo-jumbo. We're going to need a big pot of tea. And a lot of gin and tonic."
We moved the expedition trunk into Wadcroft's chamber, and they set to. At the rate they're going, we'll have an answer by the end of the week. I will let you know if anything comes of this.
Yours,
Glad-I-Am-Not-A-Real-Doctor Pike.
André Dupont: The colour of light
The new world - On the wings of the eagle - Digging for pearls in a pig sty - Miss Brenda Lee - A shift in perspective
AT WHAT PRICE PROGRESS?
Rina Prescott reporting
We often take for granted the comfort that our advanced society affords us. We need not fear the elements, because we are safe and warm in our houses, and all we need to do if we are cold is turn a valve. It behoves us to remember, though, where that warmth is coming from. People toil ceaselessly in the coal mines, their machines gnawing at the bowels of the Earth like earth-worms. Coal mining is not a healthy occupation. At least in England, mining equipment is designed with miners' safety in mind, if not their comfort. They wear masks that prevent them from developing the dreaded Black Lung, or pneumoconiosis as the physicians call it. But not all coal comes from our own mines. Our voracious appetite for steam compels us to purchase coal from overseas, where mining conditions are not up to our standards at all. There are places where children as young as eight years of age are driven to do the hard labour of bringing the black gold to the surface, not only in the mining carts or on the sleds, but in their lungs. We, in our civilised environment, cannot imagine the suffering, can only speculate about young children coughing like chain smokers until they are finally unable to continue. Spare them a thought, when you are warm in your bed, and remember at what price that warmth comes.
This is the first entry into my diary of this New World that Mr. Nicholas Slate has promised us. I honestly don't know what possessed me, André Dupont, Physicist and Mathematician of modest reputation, to step on board the massive airship Aquila and allow myself to be seduced into this adventure. Part of the reason, no doubt, is that those who did not now lie dead among the rubble of the Eiffel Tower. Am I a coward for choosing this way out? Part of me loathes Slate for not taking a more reasonable approach. Another part of me is excited. I must confess that in the world of the University of Paris, I have often felt restricted. When Science fears to tread the dangerous path of exploration, progress stagnates. We live in a world powered by steam, powered by coal. I know from my studies that other ways exist, not unknown to Science, but an insufficient improvement over what we now have, to be pursued. Mr. Slate offers me the opportunity that the University will not. But at what cost?
I have met my colleagues. Not all of them are French. We have Americans among us, and some Englishmen. There is a biologist from Poland and a civil engineer from Russia. Their moods vary between excitement, fear, resignment, anger. As Mr. Slate often reminds us, we are the intellectual heavyweights of the Nouveau Monde. We will stand shoulder to shoulder with the giants of our time. He spends with us all the time that the ship does not demand his attention. While he is still vague about some of his plans, he has told us that it has something to do with energy. A mysterious force he discovered, dwelling deep within the domain of matter itself. A wild energy that, while dangerous to lesser men, can be harnessed by those of staunch heart, and used to serve the needs of Humanity for as long a time as our Creator sees fit to give us.
When I hear him speak, sitting at the head of the table, eyes aglow with fervour, I believe him. But to my shame, when I return to my bed, doubt sets in. But we have not been given yet all the data that Nicholas Slate possesses. Without data, there can be no knowledge, and without knowledge, there can be no certainty.
We have stopped at an airport to take on coal. Slate has not told us where we are. One of my colleagues asked if he could visit the town, to buy some of the local products. Slate denied the request, because our enemies are moving. We cannot risk any one of us being captured. Each and every one of us is essential to the Great Plan. We quickly set off again, heading East with the setting sun in our backs. I spent most of my time on the observation deck, watching rain forests and deserts pass below us. From the geological features, one of my colleagues determined that we were flying across Sudan. It is all the same to me. Our destination is some secret cavern called by Slate "The Eagle's Nest." Our organisation is called Prometheus after the Titan from Greek mythology, who stole fire from the Gods, and for punishment was chained to a rock. The eagle came every day and pecked out his liver. Every day Prometheus' liver would grow back. Our symbol is an eagle struck down by lightning. Aquila, the name of our dreadnought airship, means "Eagle" in Latin. It seems strange to me that Slate should name his airship and his lair after the instrument of Prometheus' punishment. I haven't the heart to ask him. I hide, as I have always done, behind my unremarkable appearance. Until I know Nicholas Slate's moods and tempers better, I will keep my head down.
Not all of us on board Aquila are scientists. There are a number of Prussian guards on board, who call themselves "Klemm's Jäger". They are all professionalism and ruthless efficiency. Violent tempers checked by iron discipline. Slate assures us that they are here to keep us safe. I am certain that they are up to that task, but at the same time, they frighten me. Luckily, they keep to their own section of our airship, except at meal times, where everybody joins in, except those at the helm.
We are well taken care of. Meals while not excessive are good, with above average wine. I share a comfortable cabin with a taciturn Russian mathematician named Kristoff. I don't know if that is his first or last name or even whether he has any other name. He has not offered any explanations on why he has joined Prometheus, and I have not asked him. He snores, but I once slept through an entire failed alchemical experiment not three hundred meters away. He specialises in the analytic and algebraic topology of locally Euclidean parameterization of infinitely differentiable Riemannian manifolds, which is an obscure topic even at Paris.
When we are not sleeping or eating, we play at cards, or are lectured by Mr. Slate about the troubling direction the world is taking. Slate seems to think that we are running out of coal, and that when we do, Prometheus will be ready with the replacement technology. My skeptical mind rebels. There are untold millions of tons of coal underground, and the Tyson Process for enhancing its energy assures us of enough fire for the foreseeable future. But at some point, granted, the last lump of coal will be delved. Whether the human race as such will still exist at that time is anyone's guess. Mr. Slate has not yet explained the nature of his replacement technology to us. He simply states that it is abundant and clean, so that even in a million years, Humanity will not need to fear the dark. Once we arrive at our destination, all will be made clear. My problem remains. When he speaks, I believe him. When he is silent, doubt floats to the surface again.
I wish we were at this Eagle's Nest already. I want to know whether Nicholas Slate's vision is viable, or just a madman's dream.
We have landed at the Eagle's nest. We have disembarked, and have been gently herded into our new home. We all have rooms to ourselves, and I will no longer have to listen to Dr. Kristoff's grumbling about some kind of plagiarism affair. The laboratories are... stunning. They are fitted with the latest equipment. They are well lit, not with gas light, but with the mysterious processes of tamed lightning. We have been told that the light in our laboratories is a perfect mirror of sunlight. While this is impressive, I cannot shake the thought that this means we will not see the sun again for a long time.
To start us off, we have been given the works of a Professor Hammond of a university in Arkham, in the Americas. I have to admit that I cannot quite understand the documents. The formulas are easier to grasp, but they include variables that I am not familiar with. In fact, that is putting it politely. This, Kind Reader, is drivel of the worst description. Still, given the trouble Mr. Slate has taken to bring us here, commenting on it may not be opportune. It seems that our task is to take the sunstroke-induced ramblings of this Dr. Hammond and somehow transform them into sound science. I have started on notes trying to determine what Hammond was trying to do. Maybe I need a stiff Cognac to put myself in this American's frame of mind. I shudder to think what will happen when we try to put these ideas into practice. I would recommend the Alchemist's running shoes for this.
I have taken a short walk through the complex, which includes a mining operation for the mysterious ore on which our hopes are founded. The mines are worked by dejected looking natives of the area. We are in a very large cavern, and the airship Aquila sits on top of the only exit, hidden from observers on the ground by the mountain peaks. I could see that this exit is artificial, made using explosives. A stairway winds up into the shaft, and cargo can be loaded or unloaded by means of a crane. I could not see any other exits, but I may simply have missed them. I was just about to return, when a young lady wearing the uniform of a Jäger approached me, asking if I was lost.
"No, mademoiselle, I said. I have just arrived and I am stretching my legs."
"The Boss doesn't like people wandering around," she said, not unfriendly but firm. "It isn't safe everywhere."
"Oh, I don't intend to go where I'm not wanted," I said.
"That's pretty much everywhere except the brain pen," she replied.
"Brain pan?"
"Pen. It's a play on words. Because you people are supposed to be very clever. And we like to keep you inside. You live longer that way."
"Are you afraid I might fall into a mine shaft? Maybe you think a carriage might run into me? Is the roof so badly constructed that rocks fall off?"
The lady pointed at a group of miners. "We've got plenty of people here who would love to show you the bottom of one of the mine shafts."
"But I have not done anything to them! Why..."
"Others have. And they were the same colour as you are. Think I'm wearing this revolver as a fashion accessory?"
"That is simply..."
"Brain pen is that way," said the lady. "Come on, I'll take you there."
She led me back to my laboratories, to my colleagues, and to my unfathomable documents. She gave me a nod, and turned round to leave.
"Wait." I said. "My name is André Dupont. What is your name?"
She half turned round to look at me for a moment or two.
"Lee," she said. "Brenda Lee."
"Pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle Lee."
"Likewise, I'm sure."
I have now been at the Eagle's Nest for a week. Our job is to look for nuggets of wisdom in the large volumes of nonsense left not only by Prof. Hammond, but by others of the same expedition. Here and there, I have indeed found pieces of sound Physics, but to be honest, those could have been produced by any competent physicist in an afternoon's hard work. Magister Nicholas Slate visits us often, wanting to know what progress we have made. I leave it to my colleagues to inform him that we are gaining deeper and deeper insight into the very essence of existence itself, and that we are awed by the depth of the research of Hammond et al. I am not a competent liar. I have obtained a few samples of the ore. They are on my desk now, glowing prettily when I turn off the lights. I have a large stack of paper to be read, a small stack of paper containing the few coherent pieces of research, and a large waste paper bin. Mr. Slate has asked me twice in person if my research is getting on. I keep a small supply of paper available on which I have "copied" some of Hammond's work. In reality, these are my own work on magnetism and electricity. Since that has everything to do with energy, I hope it will satisfy him.
I have seen Mademoiselle Lee once or twice, spoken with her once. She visits the Brain Pen only now and then with her colleagues, on one of their unending Sicherheitsinspektionen. Among the large bulky Jäger, she seems small, but there is a sense of strength about her that can only be the result of many hours, even days wasted picking up pieces of metal and putting them down again. I honestly cannot think of a less productive way to spend one's time. I have not told her my opinions, as those in glass houses should not throw stones. My own work at this moment is no less futile, and does not even leave my brain in better condition.
Though she hides it well under a layer of professionalism, I can't escape the notion that something is troubling her deeply. I am curious what it is, but at the same time not sure at all that I want to find out.
Today was not a good day, to say the least. We were familiar with the way Mr. Nicholas Slate treats his friends. Today we were shown how he treats his enemies. All the scientists were gathered together in the dining hall, and we were asked about our progress. One of the physicists, a Romanian named Marius Cjelli, launched into a large treatise on the merits of the impressive works of the great scientist Professor Hammond. He spoke at great length about the lightening that dwells deep in the substance of the pitchblende, citing many of Hammond's papers on the frequencies permeating the higher dimensions of Being. He finished with a bow and expressed his gratitude for being allowed to participate in this great endeavour that would no doubt elevate Humanity to the very stars and beyond.
Some of us cheered him on, but true to my nature, I kept silent. I thank the Good God that I did. Nicholas Slate's silence drew into it all sound until nobody spoke. He turned to Dr. Cjelli with a dark look on his face.
"Doctor Cjelli. Have you anything more to say on this subject?"
"Mr. Slate, Eternity itself could not contain the words. I am privileged..."
"Enough! Doctor Cjelli, do I look like an imbecile to you?"
Dr. Cjelli could only stammer.
"Do you think I am unaware of the nature of the documents left to us by Dr. Hammond? Do you think I don't know that the man sullies the very title he bore by his sheer existence? I know that Hammond's papers contain nothing but the delusional babblings of a madman! This should have been obvious to any of you at the first glance! I gave you these papers, not to learn of the nature of the powers inherent in the ore that our mines provide! No, I gave you these papers to learn of you! Do you think I cannot tell when someone tries to deceive me with a deluge of words? You, Dr. Cjelli, have tried to deceive me. You have insulted my intelligence, and you have betrayed the New Order! I will not take this lightly, nor will I forgive you for it. Take him!"
Two of the Jäger stepped forward, and held his arms. A third came up behind him. I thought that Dr. Cjelli would be thrown into a dungeon, but the truth was worse. He was dragged to the middle of the dining hall, and a rope was thrown over a beam. Before anyone could move or speak, the rope was looped over Dr. Cjelli's head, and he was pulled off his feet till they were about a yard off the ground. His face turned red, and he tried in vain to pull himself up by the rope. His legs kicked out like some grotesque dance.
We all looked on on abject terror. One of us, I could not see who, stood up.
"Good God, Slate! Let the man down, he has learned his lesson!"
Mr. Slate bared his teeth in a grisly travesty of a grin as Dr. Cjelli's movements grew weaker, and finally stopped.
"Dr. Cjelli has no more lessons to learn, Gentlemen. But he has one final lesson left to teach. You are the ones who must learn, and learn well. This is the fate of traitors." Slate calmly walked over to Dr. Cjelli and turned him to face us. "Observe. Observe the way his eyes bulge. Observe the way his tongue protrudes. Observe the expression of one who suffers and then dies. This is the fate of those who seek to betray Prometheus. Remember Dr. Cjelli's final lesson, Gentlemen. I have read all your reports. Know that I have learnt from your words who to trust, and who to watch closely. Who can sleep easy, and who must redeem himself."
At a gesture from Mr. Slate, the Jäger let go of the rope, and Dr. Cjelli's body fell to the ground. There was a sickening crack as his head hit the stone floor. It drove home the fact that Dr. Cjelli was no longer alive to feel the pain of a broken skull.
"Now return to your rooms. Tomorrow, you will be given your true tasks."
This journal, I write by the dim light of a single candle. The small black Moleskine notebook fits snugly inside the pocket of my jacket. I will confide to it all that happens to me in this horrible place. We have turned from Slate's trusted colleagues into his prisoners. We are his slaves as much as are the poor wretched souls toiling, spoiling their lives, in the mines. I doubt whether they will feel our kinship as keenly as I do. If Slate holds their life in as little regard as he does ours, then they have good cause to hate all those of us with white skin. I hope and pray that my skills will be equal to the tasks set before us. I have no doubt that Slate will deal harshly with any of us who cannot satisfy his demands.
I will try to sleep now. I am both exhausted, and rigid with fear. Perhaps I should have taken my chances in the Eiffel Tower. This place stinks of death.
Mon Dieu, why did I come to this place? Even though the Eiffel Tower lies in ruins, with my poor unwilling colleagues dead among the rubble, their fate cannot be worse than ours. We are prisoners here in the belly of a mountain. We are made comfortable, we are well-fed, and our dwellings are kept clean by dedicated slaves. This only accentuates the fact that our comforts can easily be taken away from us. We are as much captives as our poor dark-skinned brethren, who have to work in the mines to delve the poisonous materials from the bowels of the Earth. I have seen them, forced myself to look at their bodies, burnt by unseen fire, disfigured with unnatural swellings. Even if I can do nothing to lessen their suffering, I will witness it. Even if my pity does not help them one iota, they have it.
I write these words, maybe in the vain hope that someone will at some time find them, and read in them why scientists, who should know better, allowed themselves to be used in this fashion by a madman, hungry for power.
We are the damned. History will spit on our names. They will call us traitors, cowards, heretics, villains, and they will be right.
Alexandra Tennant: The talons of the Eagle
The abandoned mine - Gathering of knowledge - Familiar Surroundings - Meeting the enemy
THE ALGERNON RIFLE CLUB GOES TO WAR!
Linda Davenport reporting
We have had a bit of a surprise from Prof. Pike of the Rifle Club. He has just informed us that we have been entered in an international rifle contest all the way up in Folkestone. Say what you will about Miss Alexandra Tennant, but she at least would have informed us before entering us. Professor Pike says he has great faith in us.
Since the competition in Folkestone will be rifles at eight hundred yards, the boys have rolled up their sleeves, in some cases removed their shirts altogether, and moved back our firing booths by some two hundred yards in a grand display of brute strength, well supervised by us girls. Well done to them, I say!
We are now organising a competition amongst ourselves, to see who will represent us. Three of our group will be sent to Folkestone bearing the new sniper rifles provided by Mr. Pike from origins unknown. Needless to say, we are all practicing hard for the final contest in three weeks' time, to see who will accompany Miss Carrie StJohn to London.
I am shocked, nay horrified, to report that the sin of gambling is alive and well under the roof of Algernon University. At the moment, behind Miss StJohn, clear favourites are alledgedly Mr. Nigel Arterton and Miss Christa Whelan. It would of course be unethical of your correspondent to place a bet on herself, so she vehemently denies doing any such thing. The patently false rumours that my co-correspondent, Miss Prescott, would be willing to take bets, are based on nothing but vile and deceitful lies. I must stress that gambling leads to slackening of social norms, poverty, excess drinking, and a clear and direct path to a criminal career. You have been warned.
With plenty of practice at Lady I's helm, I have become quite good at steering her. Put me on the helm even in the busiest of airports, and I will take our home in the sky where she needs to go, even in the worst of conditions. Lady I is well and truly our ship now. It pains me to write it, but Carl is as good at it as I am. The best helmsman our Lady could ask for though, is Fatin. Carl, Father, and I are good at navigating her through the sky. Fatin, when she takes the wheel, becomes the Lady I. I watch her, with her bare feet on the metal floor of the bridge, one hand on the wheel, one on the ailleron controls, her dark eyes on the horizon, her mind extending itself from Lady I's bows, through the propellers, all the way to her rudder, and I know that even with my Helmsman's papers where she has none, I will never be her equal. It makes one think. How many people are there in African tribes with talents like hers? How many brilliant painters, engineers, alchemists, guitarists, walk the deep dark forests of Africa, doomed never to explore their talents to the fullest? For that matter, how many hunters languish in office jobs or in factories, watching endless rows of engine parts float by on the conveyor belt? Those of us who have found our calling in life, should consider ourselves lucky.
Mindful of this, Fatin was at the helm when we approached the Belian-Ibelin mine with the wind at our bows and the sun at our backs. Riley was at the fore'ard guns, and I was making ready to drop down to a hill overlooking the mining compound. I was to provide cover fire for Nazeem and Carl as they explored the buildings. A job for people with a functioning pair of legs when a speedy exit was needed.
The last time we were here, we had to leave under fire, in the Beast of Algernon, the tracked vehicle designed and built by Andrew Parsons. This time, we were prepared for anything. Or so we thought.
I was winched down into the trees with my Mauser SR-220, wearing my all-environment suit. I ran to the top of a hill, and set up my nest half way up a tall tree. Looking through my scope, I watched Carl and Nazeem approach the main building. I scanned doorways and windows for unfriendly attention. Nothing or nobody showed itself. Apart from the song of the birds and the buzz of insects, all was quiet. The big wheels of the pumps stood still, nobody was mining today. The small children would not need to drag heavy loads of coal to the surface.
I saw Carl enter one of the buildings, a kind of barracks. It made me nervous that I could not see him, but Nazeem was just outside, ready to come to Carl's rescue. Carl stayed inside the building for only a minute or so. Then he walked out, bent over, and emptied his stomach onto the ground. I increased the magnification on my rifle scope so I could see him talk to Nazeem. Carl's face was ashen pale. I pulled back my vision, quickly checked their surroundings for enemies. There were none. I could see Carl stand up with a determined look on his face. He and Nazeem walked from building to building. When they were satisfied that nothing or nobody stirred, they made the hand signal that meant to join them there. I slung my rifle on my back and ran down, into the compound. Carl was sitting on the ground, staring ahead of him without seeing. I kneeled before him.
"What's the matter, Brother? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Carl blinked slowly. "I've seen dozens of ghosts. Hundreds."
I stood up and turned to one of the buildings. Carl grabbed my arm.
"Don't go in there, Alex. For the sake of your faith in Humanity. There is nothing we can do."
"I won't let you carry the burden alone," I said.
"Please... don't."
I put my hand on his shoulder, smiled at him. Then, I walked into one of the buildings. I wish now that I had listened to Carl. As I opened the door, a thousand thousand flies swarmed about me, and I was struck by such a stench that it almost seemed like a physical wall to me. I wish, as no doubt does Carl, that I could erase from my eyes and from my mind the scene in that building. It was a slaughterhouse of humanity. This building had been a sleeping quarters. All the beds had been pushed to one side, and on the other side were stacked dead bodies. They were ordered youngest to eldest. Orderly. Efficient. I tried to turn off my imagination. Tried not to see what had happened here, and how. Details assaulted my attention. The trails of blood on the floor. The torn clothes of the two young women on top of the pile. Closing my eyes made no difference. I could hear the screams. I could feel the fear and pain.
There was a hand on my shoulder. I looked round to see Nazeem standing behind me with an indescribable expression in his dark eyes.
"Their troubles are over. The Spirits are seeing to their needs. It is we who are the wretched ones, to live among all this beauty defiled and desecrated by these actions of cruelty. Nazeem has seen what must be seen. Our airship is descending. Let us leave and take counsel."
"That's the best you can do? 'Oh dear God look at all the dead people. How horrible!' You weren't there for a horrorshow, you were there to get information."
James Riley, spy of Arkham University, scoffed at us. After we had reported, he had given us a dark look and stepped down to have a look for himself.
"By all means enlighten us, Mr. Riley." Father looked at him over the rim of his coffee cup.
Carl and I were sitting at the table. Nazeem leaned against the wall. Fatin was at the helm with their son Raage. Riley paced up and down the mess hall.
"Two sleeping quarters, about a hundred bodies each. Boys aged six to maybe twelve. Girls aged from seven to, oh, twenty or so. This happened maybe a month ago. Flesh goes runny in about that time." Riley grinned, savouring our expressions. "Almost all of them were killed with a bayonet to the heart or the brain. That's one of the quickest and cheapest ways to kill someone. They weren't messing about. Maybe they had a bit of fun with the last ones, but that was it."
"A bit of fun?" Carl glared at Riley. "Would it really hurt you to have a little respect, Riley?"
"Oh sure," said Riley. "Those poor women. Subjected to a fate worse than death. And then death." He thumped his fist on the table. "Guess what? They're still dead. They still got raped. Your bleeding hearts don't make one goddamn bit of difference to them. Except you were so busy feeling sorry that you didn't even stop to ask yourself the important question."
I gave Riley a dark look. "I'm sure you will be telling us what that question is?"
"Who is not here," said Nazeem.
Riley turned to him, pointing. "Give the man a cigar. Who ain't here?"
"Well?" said Carl.
"Boys and men from thirteen up. Big strong men. Workers. And not just any kind of workers. Miners. And what does that tell us, kids?"
"Slate needs more ore," said Father.
"Correct. Now do we know any place where we can find some? Because a dime gets you a dollar that wherever we can find some of those glowy rocks, we can find us some scientists."
"Hammond's last camp," said Carl. "I was hoping never to set foot there again."
"I'll go and set the course," I said. "It's marked on the map, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Carl. "Latitude and longitude are in the log under 'inadvisable to visit'. Are we stupid or what?"
"Speak for yourself," I said.
I walked onto the bridge. Fatin smiled at me, and I smiled back.
"Turn North," I said. "We're heading for Hammond's camp. I'll give you a more precise course in a minute."
Fatin turned the wheel and brought Lady I round. The beams of afternoon sunlight played on the floor. I found the camp in our log, pulled out the map, and drew a line from our present position to the place that had nearly killed my brother. A little trigonometry later, I could give the course to Fatin. She moved the wheel with tiny, precise motions. I leaned on the railing that separated the helm station from the rest of the bridge, and looked ahead.
"Alex?"
I looked round. Fatin is one of the few people I suffer to call me that. When I first met her, I shortened my name because 'Alexandra' would be a bit of a mouthful. Fatin nodded at the pram tied securely to the railing.
"Go and look at Raage sleeping. That is what I do when I feel sad."
I didn't ask her how she knew. I walked over to Raage and looked at his little brown face, quiet and content as he slowly moved in his sleep, making the tiny noises that babies make. A fresh soul, untouched by the darkness in this world. I reached out and pulled the blanket over him. He kicked it away again, gave a little snort and woke up. I could see him take a deep breath to demand food.
"Oh dear. Now I've done it."
Raage seemed to agree. He started crying, but in a polite kind of way, suggesting that if Mummy could see her way clear to giving him some milk, that would be splendid.
"Take the wheel? North-north-east. I will give him the breast."
I took over from Fatin, and she settled cross-legged in the Captain's chair with Raage. She turned it round to look at me.
"You have seen bad things."
"Yes."
"When Carl came in, he looked pale and wouldn't talk."
"Our faces always look pale," I said.
Fatin laughed quietly. "I can't cure that. That is how you were made." She looked down at Raage. "You have seen the bad side of people. How many were there?"
I paused a moment. It was easy to see Fatin as a rather naive, primitive young girl, but every time she talked to me, she proved me wrong. I looked at the compass, turned the wheel.
"Two hundred," I said. "As many people as there are in your tribe, ten times. Mostly women and children. The men were taken away."
Fatin shook her head. "So many. So many children not born. So many meals not cooked. So many lonely nights."
"They didn't need the women. They needed workers. Miners."
"They are wrong," said Fatin. "They do need the women. Men on their own become dark and do bad things. Their minds become like that of an old lion who is cast out of the group and can only kill weaker things, fighting pumas for their food."
"Maybe they are not expected to live that long. Remember what happened to Carl. I fear for them."
"It doesn't take long for their minds to go bad." Fatin drew back into her memories. "When men of the M'bari tribe took us to be their wives, Kal go bad very soon. He killed many M'bari with fire. I was afraid to look at him. Only when I lay with him later did he grow easy."
"He doesn't get angry easily," I said. "But when he does, he gets very angry."
"No. He does get angry quickly. When someone hurts me, or you, or Raage, he is like thunder from a clear sky." She looked up at me, a soft look in her eyes. "But most times, he is just my big dumb man."
Raage seemed to have finished, and Fatin buttoned herself up. She put him back in his pram, picked up a rattle and jiggled it in front of him, singing softly to him in her own language. Raage giggled and reached out for the toy. She gave it to him and he shook it. He muttered a few words, closed his eyes and went to sleep. Fatin took the helm back from me.
"North-north-west. Go and have a sleep, Alex. You will be at the helm tonight."
"Can't," I said.
Fatin reached out and stroked my shoulder. "Then make tea. I would like some."
I put the kettle on. The English answer to everything. I handed Fatin her mug, and stood next to her as Lady I made her way to where we needed to be.
We were hovering above the spot at very high altitude. From below, Lady I would be a small dot. Lady I was painted dark on top, light below, making her long cigar-like shape resemble an orca, commonly known as a killer whale. With her ridiculously over-powered A. Parsons Mk.14 steam turbines and rapid-fire guns fore and aft, she was a hunter. She was a relatively small airship, dwarfed by the massive bulk of other dirigibles, but she was originally designed to tip the balance in the crippling trench warfare of the latest Franco-Prussian wars.
Father was standing by the large telescope, looking down on the location of Hammond's camp. Nothing remained, not even of the cemetery where we buried the unfortunate members of the Arkham expedition. Carl stood next to Father, his own telescope in hand. Fatin was at the wheel. Nazeem was in the hold, meditating, observing the land below with his sight beyond sight. Either that, or he was simply taking a little nap before setting down. Riley was in one of the comfortable chairs on the bridge.
"It's gone, ain't it?"
"Not a trace," said Father. "Carl, are you sure we're in the right place?"
"Of course Father," said Carl. "I wouldn't forget those mountains. I am looking at the trail that we used to carry those bloody rocks down. Nearly dying of poisoning does wonders for one's memory."
"Trust, but verify," said Father.
"We're going down for a better look, aren't we?" I said. "I'll get my rifle."
I walked into my cabin and dug out the wooden case containing my heavily customised Mauser SR-220, a model also known as Fräulein, because it is smaller than usual, making it more suitable for ladies to handle. I'd bought it from a friend of Carl's. I'd had it modified so I could take it apart and pack it in a smaller case. I changed the stock myself, the better to fit my physique. I had put on a modified scope with a higher magnification and a wider lens. It had an effective range of fifteen hundred meters in the Continental metric system. I had hit targets at two thousand yards with this rifle. In the five years I'd had it, it had become almost like an extra limb to me. As I assembled the parts, lock, stock, barrel, scope, I checked them for dirt. Not that I hadn't cleaned them obsessively when I'd last put them away, but you never knew. Gnomes might have come in and made it all dirty again.
I gently laid the rifle down on my bed, then pulled my all-environment suit out of my trunk, freshly washed and folded. I stripped down to my underwear and slid into it, closing the hook-and-velvet fastenings till it looked and felt like a second skin. This suit, made by Mrs. Peabody, master clothier of Ipswich, would keep me cool in hot places, warm in cold places. It also nicely accentuated my figure, to the point where walking round in it was likely to cause a bit of a stir among the easily distracted young men. I loaded five clips up with high velocity rounds, put them in pouches on my belt, one more clip went into my rifle. Round in the chamber, safety on, I slung it on my back. I quickly checked myself in the mirror, because going out to war improperly dressed is very rude, then walked back to the bridge, ready for anything.
We brought down Lady I a few miles away from Hammond's camp. Carl, Nazeem, and I came down the ladder and marched off to the cave entrance where Prof. Hammond first discovered the mysterious ore that started this adventure. Carl said the place had changed. When he arrived, and it became clear that these caves were worth studying, they had created another entrance. That entrance had now collapsed, and Nazeem told us he could feel the lingering presence of the Spirit of fire. To put it more prosaically, explosives had been used. This was all the evidence we needed. People had been here, and changed the place to suit themselves, so that there was now only one entrance into the complex and that was at the top, only accessible from the air. Except, there was one other entrance, only known to Carl.
He pointed at a narrow passage leading up into the mountains, and up we went. This was the original passage where Carl's expedition had originally meant to cross the mountains on a geological survey of this country. They had been looking for coal, of course. Our society is forever looking for more coal, to warm people's houses, and move civilisation. They had found a small cave entrance, gone in to investigate, and found the glowing rocks that had ultimately caused their death by breathing in the poisonous dust. Carl still bore on his chest and back some of the burn scars, from carrying big sacks of the stuff to camp.
We climbed up the steep track, until we came to a small decline, some sort of bowl between cliff faces. In the side of the mountain was the entrance, a high, slender passage into the bowels of the Earth.
"Well," said Carl, "We're on the doorstep. Now all we need is a Dwarf with the key."
"I wonder if the Dragon knows of this entrance," I said.
"On this subject, the Spirits are silent to Nazeem. He must see with his own eyes."
"Just in case the answer is yes," I said. "Shall I set up a sniper's nest opposite the door? Then, if you need to turn and run, I can keep them inside."
"Excellent plan," said Carl. "It's hot up there. Got enough water?"
I didn't need to check. Life in the desert teaches you to know precisely how much water you have left in your bottle.
"Plenty," I said. "Give me twenty minutes to set up."
I walked along the top of the cliff, glancing up at the sky where I knew Lady I was hovering, watching our every move. I couldn't see her, which was good. I found a nice spot, hidden between two boulders. The place was hot as a furnace, and not even my all-environment suit could keep me cool. Still, I had a good view of the cave entrance and the path to it, which was what mattered. I pulled the dust cover off my rifle's barrel, looked down, and set the range on my scope to eight hundred meters. After ten minutes or so, I could see Nazeem and Carl walk up to it, crouch next to the entrance, peer in. I tensed up, put a round in the chamber. At a nod from Carl, Nazeem walked in, and Carl followed. I waited. Snipers never learn patience. If they don't have it to begin with, they do not last in the trade. There are stories of snipers lying perfectly still for as much as a week, waiting for the perfect shot. I had to wait only ten minutes or so. Voices came out of the cave mouth, echoing against the cliff walls. Carl and Nazeem came running out, Carl with his revolver out. I saw him stumble, fall, get up again and run on. He'd dropped his revolver and now grabbed his rifle. Presently, their pursuers showed themselves in my scope. They were wearing some kind of military uniform, beige like the stone and sand around us.
I aimed for the legs of the first. The bang of my rifle echoed through the valley, making it more difficult to spot me. He fell down, screaming, clutching his leg. I put another round in the chamber, fired again, deliberately missing. I wasn't trying to kill anyone, only to keep them from following Carl and Nazeem. Two of the men grabbed their stricken comrade, and took him running back to the cave entrance. There was the noise of Lady I's engines, and the banshee wail of hydrogen gas blowing out of every safety valve. As I looked round, I could see her swooping down, rope ladder out for Carl and Nazeem. Carl leaped up, pulled himself up hand over hand. Nazeem followed him. As soon as they were on the ladder, Lady I turned herself up to the skies, and sped off in a Northerly direction. I looked at her through my rifle scope, saw Carl and Nazeem make it to the entrance, disappear inside. Lady I came about, turned into my direction. I looked round, spotted a high point, got up, and made for it.
At that moment, there was the roar of cannon fire, and the drone of many propellers. Like a monster from ancient legend, Prometheus' airship Aquila came towards us. I stood watching in horror as the tiny shape of Lady I turned again, accelerating upwards and away, with Aquila in pursuit, firing, though thankfully not hitting Lady I. As far as I could see, she was outrunning Aquila, her rear guns spitting tracer rounds at the massive form.
At that moment, someone shouted at me in Arabic. I turned round, to see two men dressed in burnous, rifles aimed at me. I had to bring round my rifle, then shoot both of them, in the time it took them to pull the trigger. One of them repeated what he'd shouted at me. I sighed, put down my rifle, carefully, not to get sand on it. One of them came forward, I backed off. With a curse in Arabic, he picked up my rifle, tossed it over the cliff edge. I took a breath. That rifle was worth a fortune in these places.
"Turn round! Down!"
I raised my hands, seething inwards at these stupid men, walked down the path. They took me down to the cave entrance, pushed me inside. I could see the man I'd shot lying on a stretcher. As I looked, someone behind me kicked me in the back of the knees, slammed the butt of his rifle between my shoulder blades. They bound my hands behind my back, and marched me down into the mountain, till we came to a large cavern. I could see the last daylight shining through a hole in the ceiling. Then, someone put a bag over my head.
Someone pushed me down onto a wooden chair, and I could hear a familiar voice.
"Miss Tennant. How nice to see you again."
"Slate," I said. There was a hard blow to the side of my head.
"Speak only to answer questions. Do you understand?"
I said nothing. From out of the dark, another blow.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes," I said, shaking.
"Take off her blindfold." Slate's voice.
Someone pulled the bag off my head, and I blinked. I was in an office, or perhaps a small classroom, with stone walls. There was even a chalkboard on one of the walls, meticulously swept clean. Slate was at a desk, raised a little above the ground. A blonde woman stood next to him, arms crossed, an arrogant little smile on her face. Two large men stood next to me, I could sense another behind. I didn't know any of their names, but I recognised them as Klemm's Jäger, the mercenary force that had been our protectors on our first expedition. There was little comfort in my knowing them. They were hired hands, and at the moment, they were hired by Nicholas Slate. Also, their commander, Gustav Klemm, had died on board Lady I, shot in the forehead by Godfrey Pike. I prayed that they didn't know about that.
"Welcome to the Eagle's Nest," said Slate. "From the fact that you have shot one of my men, I deduce that this is not a social call. Why are you here? Who do you work for? How many of you are there? These are the things I must know."
I took a breath, said nothing. The man behind me hit me again, and I fell off the chair, onto the ground. I've been hit before. I've been in fist fights. I've been in boxing matches. This was worse. I could not run away, could not defend myself. Someone grabbed me, put me back in my chair. Slate sat there, a little smile on his face.
"Please answer my questions, Miss Tennant, and we can forego this... unpleasantness."
"Go to hell," I said. I knew it would cost me, but I wanted to tell him, at least once.
One of the men grabbed my shoulders. Another stepped in front of me, waited till he had my full attention, then drew back his fist and hit me in the face, hard. I could not keep myself from crying out. Blood trickled into my eye. Behind his desk, Slate shook his head.
"Well, Miss Tennant. If that is how it is going to be, then I wash my hands of you." He turned to the woman beside him. "Hester? Find out what she knows. And do it where it won't spoil my carpet." He looked back at me. "I regret that we won't meet again, Miss Tennant. But at least, my memory of you will be as a pretty woman. Take her away."
Godfrey Pike: The art of diplomacy
Wainwright in Khartoum - Dangerous things to know - Bull in a china shop - The order of Cross and Moon - Unintentional bycatch
ARE WE UNDER SIEGE?
Rina Prescott reporting
With the recent troubling events, it is clear that measures must be taken to ensure the safety of Algernon university's students and faculty. As I'm sure we have all noticed, the Porters have been given permission to stop and search anyone for weapons, to demand the opening of any school locker with or without the owner's consent or even knowledge. No one in their right mind would stop the University's security staff from doing all the necessary to prevent miscreants from threatening us.
But at what cost comes this safety? There have been several instances of searches that, as expected, turned out to be completely unnecessary and an invasion of our privacy. It might be argued that as students here, we have little enough privacy as it is, but what little there is, we must defend tooth and nail if need be. As Benjamin Franklin said, those who give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.
Another question that might be asked is this: What good will it do to all our safety if students may be subject to all kinds of intrusions to our already small personal space? While we all may have wished dire misfortune upon certain Faculty members, I am confident that we are not the people threatening Algernon University's condition as a safe home.
We must impress on the University's leadership that we, both students and faculty, have certain unalienable rights, the violation of which far outweighs the need for essentially useless information.
Standard encryption applied.
Dear Professor Pike,
I have taken the airship to Cairo, and have now arrived by train in Khartoum. I am in one of the Service's safe houses, under the care of our local agents. I have requested an appointment with Mr. Bouzid Moghadam, but so far, I have had no reply. Our contacts here are for the most part helpful, but they have earnestly warned me not to go off on expeditions on my own. Anti-English sentiments here are still strong. I blame your generation, Professor, and your urge to bring civilisation to parts already sufficiently civilised. One of our men, named Kamal, will introduce me to Moghadam's under-chamberlain or something, a man named Samir. He may be willing to introduce me to his boss, and we can get some kind of negotiation going.
I mentioned the Tennant family to my new friends, and they gave me very filthy looks. It seems that Miss Alexandra has taken up with some unsavoury characters, namely a Mr. James T. Riley, and an Oberst Gustav Klemm. People are also still sour about Miss Alexandra's little expedition into Mr. Moghadam's basement. Apparently, Moghadam Mansion's security has been stepped up considerably, with even Moghadam Junior's wife falling under suspicion and being kept on a tight leash. As you have often reminded me, once you say a word, you can't take it back, so I kept my trap shut. I will write more after my meeting with Grand Vizier Samir.
Yours,
Wainwright.
Dear Winston,
Our enemies have been exceptionally quiet, which means that they are probably planning something. If so, then they are not using any old tricks. We have hired nobody, no strange new students have arrived, there haven't even been any unknown visitors from abroad. I don't like it, Winston. It gives me the feeling that things are moving outside my field of vision. Perhaps the Enemy simply means to climb the University walls under cover of darkness and murder us in our beds. I wouldn't put it past them, everything else has failed.
Professors Wadcroft and Enderby have been steadily working through the pile of documents from the Hammond expedition. I can tell from the mad stares in their eyes that these document are not up to Algernon University's standards of scientific rigour. Prof. Enderby described one of the documents as 'word soup with pretty pictures'. Wadcroft says he is either very close to a solution to world hunger, or precisely the day and hour that the Old Gods will awake from their slumber and devour the world. I know one or two scientists from Miskatonic University, Winston, and they've always struck me as slightly unhinged. If either Professor Wadcroft or Enderby starts exuding eldritch emanations, I will regrettably have to abandon this line of investigation. So far, nothing seems to point at a breakthrough, but Algernon Scientists are a hardy bunch.
On a happy note, please thank Quentin for his generous gift of ammunition. We now have enough to start a small revolution. The Rifle Club members are progressing well, to the point where I think they may have a chance at this championship. Miss StJohn is clearly the best shot of the lot, but I daresay there are others who are at least in the same weight class as she is. We may yet bring home the trophy, Winston!
Yours as always,
Godfrey Pike.
Dear Winston,
Curse and crush our enemies, they have tried again! I don't want to turn kindly Algernon U into a fortress, Winston, but by Jove, if I must, I will! As it is, we must be grateful that nothing serious happened to Margaret. She has come through this like a trooper. I was keeping her and Wadcroft company, guarding their sanity as they ploughed through the pile of drivel, when she announced that Nature called, and she must obey. Wadcroft only answered with a few suitable words in a tongue not of this world, and she left. There are those of us who have made a careful study of the time women need to take care of business such as this, but I am not one of them. Still, twenty minutes later, she had not returned.
"What's keeping Margaret?" I said.
Wadcroft just shrugged, concentrating too deeply on his work to even have heard me. He made some notes on his notepad and dropped the document he was working on back into the trunk. I stood up, and walked out of the door. It took me all of five minutes to find the nearest ladies', and I hesitated. There are places Man is not supposed to go. Luckily, Miss Jocelyn of the Rifle Club came by, and I asked her to see if Margaret was inside. She reported that nobody was inside, and that nobody was lying in any of the toilets in a pool of blood. I sometimes wonder about Miss Jocelyn, and the wisdom in training her to use firearms. Acting on a hunch, I ran to Margaret's vault, and found the door open. Voices came from inside, a soft male voice, and Margaret's rather more forceful tones, using vocabulary that I'm sure she must have picked up in the West Indies somewhere. I pulled out my revolver, and stole inside. By the light of the desk light, I could see Margaret and a man I'd never seen before, dressed in dark clothes. I should have put bloody glass shards on top of the University wall as soon as I mentioned climbing over them to you, Winston.
"You know what documents I am talking about," said our intruder. He had a foreign accent that I couldn't place.
"I've told you, you stupid bugger, they're not here! We're reading them!"
"You're lying. You would have returned them by now."
"What are you, a bloody librarian?"
At that point, a knife gleamed in the gaslight. At which point I thought I'd introduce myself. I gave a little cough. I should have just shot him, Winston, because he jumped like a cat, and the next moment, he was standing behind Margaret, holding one of her arms behind her back, knife at her throat. From what I could see in the dark, she was looking furious rather than scared. There was very little I could do. I've never been much of a martial artist, as you know.
"Let go of me, you bastard!"
"No." The man peered past Margaret at me. "Drop the gun or else."
"You're not going to escape," I said.
"Drop the gun, or I start cutting."
"Godfrey," Margaret hissed.
"Yes?" I said.
"Thee, two, one, now!"
With her free hand, Margaret reached behind her and did something to bring tears to the eyes of lesser men, or at least distract them for a splintered moment. In that moment, I aimed, and shot him in the eye. It was all that was exposed. He fell down like a towel put on its tip, nicking Margaret with his knife on the way down, though thankfully not seriously. Margaret stood for a few moments, blood dripping down her shirt, until I pulled out my handkerchief and pushed it up against the cut. I gently led Margaret away from her assailant, and turned back to see that he was, as expected, dead as a doornail.
Margaret looked back at me, handkerchief pressed to herself. She glared at me.
"He came into the ladies, Pike. Into the bloody ladies! Is nothing sacred?"
I gave her a quick once-over. She still seemed angry more than anything else.
"The ladies? Oh, that's just not on."
"Bloody heathens." She pulled away my handkerchief, inspected herself.
"Let's get you to the infirmary," I said. "See if they have any plasters."
Damn it, Winston. One of these days, I will catch one of them alive. I've taken Margaret to see Dr. Bernhardt, and informed him that there's another nice autopsy waiting for him. I look forward to his description of the cause of death. Like all that went before him, this miscreant carried nothing on him to identify himself. He looks European, maybe French, maybe Italian. We've put him in the morgue next to his partially dissolved colleague.
Margaret is in the infirmary, under a mild sedative. I will write more when I have spoken to her in the morning. Wadcroft has been to visit her, which seemed to do her some good. I grow tired of this, Winston. I hope young Wainwright manages to go on the offensive in Khartoum, because I am starting to feel like a goalkeeper here, and I can only pray that I won't let any balls through before the game ends.
Yours,
Godfrey.
Dear Winston,
I've had word from young Wainwright, but it is not very encouraging. Wainwright, sad to say, has not yet learnt the humility fitting a defeated former adversary in war. I wish I had gone myself, but I'm not sure our energetic young friend would have been able to hold the fort here. He has spoken with Samir, Mr. Moghadam's functionary and managed to annoy him, beyond even the power of avarice to calm him. Disappointing, Winston, but he's still wet behind the ears. He'll learn. Meanwhile though, our investigations overseas have ground to a halt. Unsatisfactory.
I have doubled the guards here. The porters are doing a splendid job, with never a complaint. Mustn't grumble, there's a war on you know? I have also spoken to Chancellor Munroe, and he has agreed to make the wall slightly more suited to keeping people out. This will sadly also keep the young lads from visiting their lady friends in town, but in times like this, sacrifices must be made.
Wadcroft and Margaret have finished going through the Hammond manuscripts. I have heard of the famed Pnakotic manuscripts coming out of Arkham, that can drive one mad simply by reading them. Wadcroft reports that he has now developed a taste for the unutterably vile mess hall coffee, and Margaret occasionally hums Tibetan chants, but I am confident they will recover. Wadcroft says that Hammond was convinced that the pitchblende he found could be used to produce energy on an unprecedented scale. He showed me some scribbled drawings of some sort of centrifuge designed to purify the ore at the atomic level. According to Hammond, this could then be used to boil a kettle. Not boil the water in the kettle, Winston. Melt and boil the actual kettle. It would never work, of course. Wadcroft is of the opinion that the best thing to do is let them get on with it, and let Darwinian evolution take its course. They are sure to blow themselves up trying.
Yours as ever,
Godfrey
Standard encryption applied.
Dear Dr. Pike,
I have finally made contact with a group of people who know of the Hammond expedition and the abduction of the Paris scientists. Or rather, they contacted me. I was in a local tea house when both of our agents simply got up and left, without even looking at me once. As I was wondering what had got into them, three Arabic men surrounded me at my table and told me in broken English that I was coming with them. When asked, they informed me that my life was in danger if I didn't, and further explained that someone might slit my throat with a knife not unlike the one he was holding. I was convinced, and they took me into a labyrinth of small alleys. They didn't bother to take my revolver, but they were within twenty-one inches of me, never mind feet. We went into the basement of a tapestry shop. I do remember the name of the shop, but this contraption does not have Arabic characters and I can't translate it. They will be long gone anyway.
I was shown a chair and offered tea, which was very civil of them. No milk of course. They were very well informed, and knew the name of Lady I and all who sailed in her, up to the little baby. They then told me of an abandoned coal mine belonging to the Belian-Ibelin company, coordinates attached, that we might be interested in. They offered to take me there, which was awfully nice. They will be collecting me from the same tea house as before, at noon tomorrow.
I have returned to the safe house for now, but our associates aren't here, offended perhaps that I should go with my new friends without as much as a "thank you" for all their care. Well, stuff them. I am going on a safari, it seems.
If I don't make it back, please tell my mother I love her, and inform Miss Tennant that I will come back to haunt her for what she did to me.
Yours,
Wainwright.
Dear Winston,
Algernon University is now a fortress. I hate it, Winston. As well you know, I feel strongly that we guardians must allow those in our care to live their lives in peace, never knowing about the wolf at the door. The sharpened surveillance has come up with a dozen stupid little affairs. Boys smoking in the boiler room. Girls meeting their friends for little forays into the more interesting parts of Biology. A lot of illicit substances, ranging from erotic writings and imagery, via cigarettes, up to the vilest of alcoholic beverages. I emphatically don't care. All I want is to keep Algernon U and its staff and students safe from harm. I have begged Barker to ignore those things, but some he honestly can't. People are afraid, Winston. Afraid and angry. The worst is that there is nothing I can do about it. I will finish this tomorrow.
Another evening spoilt, Winston, and a fine example of what I was talking about just now. Head Porter Barker knocked on my door and informed me that he caught someone walking round armed with a rifle. He had managed to seize her, and she was on the top floor, awaiting interrogation. Interrogation, Winston! For goodness' sake. I followed him up the stairs, into one of the classrooms we use for detentions. In a chair, looking like a bird fallen out of the nest, sat Miss Jocelyn Vale. Another porter, Jenkins I believe, was keeping an eye on her. Thank God he wasn't standing behind her with a rifle, but as far as Miss Vale was concerned, he might as well have been. She looked at me with large brown eyes as I entered. Jenkins gave me and Barker a quick nod, and made himself scarce.
"Well Barker," I said. "What have we here?"
"Young lady, Sir. Walking about the corridors after dinner time bearing a deadly weapon."
"Sir! Please let me..." Jocelyn started.
"Yes thank you Miss Vale," I said. "Anything else, Barker?"
"It may interest you to know, Sir, that this young lady has in fact shot someone on University premises."
"That was..." I silenced Jocelyn with only a look. My skills at bullying young girls haven't left me.
"Got a bit of a reputation, this one." Barker looked at Miss Jocelyn. "Some people might say she's a bit funny in the head, though I myself would never voice such an opinion Sir, it being against the Rules to use derogatory terms against our students."
I looked at her. She was shaking with anger, only made worse by fear.
"Barker?"
"Sir?"
"Would you excuse us a moment?"
"Sir?"
I heaved a deep sigh. "Pass on to your men my gratitude for all your efforts, Barker. I will handle this myself. If Miss Vale murders me horribly in your absence, be it known that you will be Head of Security in my place." Bugger off. I swear I only thought that, Winston.
Barker left. I pulled up a chair and sat down next to Miss Jocelyn.
"Would you like to tell me?"
"I'm not a murderer, Sir! I only shot the woman who was trying to stab Miss Alexandra. And she lived. Um."
"So that was you then." I'd heard of the affair, and quite understood the 'Um'. That woman was killed, alledgedly killed, by Mr. James Riley under interrogation.
"What were you doing with that rifle, Jocelyn?"
"Nothing Sir! I was just on my way to the range."
"The range is closed for the night. Well, the gun lockers are."
"I'm a marshall, Sir. I can get the key. We're allowed to use the range as long as a marshall is present." She swallowed, looked at her hands. "Just wanted to get some extra practice in. For the tournament. The Brownings are always taken."
"You didn't burn through your ammunition allowance, then?" Jocelyn has a bit of a reputation for rapid-firing.
"No Sir. I didn't even have any live rounds on me. Dry-firing plugs only. Look." Her hand went to the rifle on the table. She took a short breath and pulled back her hand, looking at me.
"Go on," I said.
She picked up the Browning, routinely keeping it aimed at the ground as she ejected the magazine, even just to show me that there were no actual bullets. I couldn't care less about their scores, Winston, but Algernon Rifle Club's fire arm discipline is beyond reproach. There has not been a single negligent discharge since the club was formed. Miss Tennant can be proud.
"You're trying for a place in Folkestone?"
Jocelyn put down the rifle. "Yes Sir. Everybody knows Carrie's going to be the first. It looks like Nigel will be second." There was a certain set to her jaw that betrayed determination. "I want to be the third." She seemed to deflate a little. "I guess that's not going to happen now, is it?"
"Jocelyn..."
I pulled my silver cigarette case from my pocket, a present from Beatrice. I swear I only carry it with me for her sake. I held it out to Jocelyn. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head.
"Never touch the things."
I smiled at her, put them away. "Very sensible. 'Not a cough in a cartload.' What a load of rubbish."
That got the beginnings of a little laugh out of her.
"You did nothing wrong, Jocelyn. Your place in the qualifiers is safe. It's just that with the recent troubles, we're all a bit jumpy. And we're paying more attention to things. Which is why suddenly you can't get a decent drink anywhere on the grounds."
"Don't I know it," said Jocelyn, then snapped her eyes to me realising what she'd said.
"Sometimes, dolphins get caught in nets meant for tuna," I said. "And so does alcohol. And so do you."
"Dolphins are nice," said Jocelyn.
I got up from my chair. "Go to your dorm, Jocelyn. When next you want to practice, come see me and I'll get you a note saying it's all right."
"Um..." Jocelyn pointed at the rifle. I picked it up.
"I'll bring it back to the closet. I once smuggled an entire batallion of tanks into Angola. I can get a single rifle past the porters."
Jocelyn got up and gave me a long look. "You're not a real professor, are you?"
"I can put people to sleep with the best of them," I said. "Best not to talk about other things." I held open the door for her. "Good night, Jocelyn."
I watched her go. I like her, Winston. In a world that turns out people like cogs on a conveyor belt, she is refreshingly unconventional. And now I think I'll go and have a little chat with Mr. Barker and inform him that despite recent events, Algernon University is not yet under martial law.
Yours,
Godfrey.
André Dupont: The suffering of others
Invent the new world - The visions of Magister Nicholas Slate - A change of heart - Feeding the hungry - Objects in motion, objects at rest - Visiting the prisoners
SHOTS FIRED!
Linda Davenport reporting.
The Algernon Rifle Club are well under way to choosing their representatives in the Folkestone rifle competition in two months' time. Anyone wishing to represent our school in Folkestone must notify a range marshal, and then fire five salvos of five rounds each at four hundred yards, using one of the Club's new Browning sniper rifles kindly provided to us by Dr. Pike. The combined score will determine who will go to Folkestone.
Miss Carrie StJohn, as expected, was one of the first members to put in her five turns, and comes in at an impressive score of twenty three hundred and four, out of a maximum of twenty five hundred. This makes her a clear favorite.
Mr. Nigel Arterton managed a respectable second place with twenty two hundred and fifty, Miss Florence Albrecht on third, twenty one eighty. Not everyone has put in their round yet. Your reporter, with a score of eighteen seventy, is regrettably out of the running. It must be stressed that taking the direct approach and shooting one's opponents is frowned upon as unsportsmanlike, and anyone doing this risks disqualification.
We have learnt our lesson. There is nothing like a demonstration like Magister Slate performed on Dr. Cjelli to instill a spirit of cooperation in my colleagues and myself. I need only close my eyes and I see again the bright red face, the bulging eyes... and Slate calmly standing next to Dr. Cjelli, making perfectly clear that despite his earlier words, any if us is expendable. He often walks among us, speaking with us in a jovial manner, as though we are the best of friends. Nobody protests. Nobody even mentions what happened. Why should we?
Confucius says that the nail that extends above the others will be hammered down. Mindful of this, I do my work quietly. We have abandoned Dr. Hammond's works, thank God for small mercies. We have been told, simply, to 'Invent the New World', a world free from the dominion of coal and steam. It is all so absurd. It is over a hundred years since Thomas Savery showed the world the first steam engine. If we may count the Roman-Egyptian aeolipile, it has taken us almost a millennium to build our civilisation upon water vapour. Slate wants to do the same, in only a few short years, using technology we don't even fully understand!
My knowledge of magnetism and the tamed lightening of electricity may interest Slate enough to allow me to live out my life here, in the cradle of the New World. To me, this place stinks. It reeks of death, fear, and suffering. There is no escape. Not only would it be impossible for me, an Urbanite through and through, to reach Civilisation through these wild lands, filled with ravenous beasts, and equally ravenous humans. Even if I did survive, Civilisation would spit me out for what I have done, to assist this monster in destroying the world as we know it.
It is time for dinner. It is time for me to play the traitor's role, to eat well, and drink deep of the fruits of my betrayal.
I should be honoured. Today Magister Slate visited me in my laboratory, and spoke to me, explaining his grand vision. He addressed me in slightly accented, but perfectly adequate French. Slate put his hand on my shouder, and called me his friend and colleague. I think I succeeded in hiding my true feelings. He asked me what I was working on, and I showed him my apparatus. I had connected an electric battery, after the lead-and-sulphuric acid model of Gaston Planté, to a large coil of electric wire with an iron core. When the circuit was closed, a second bar of iron would be attracted to the first and connect with a loud click. It was a toy, a model built to explain a property of electricity and magnets. Useless as Heron's engine. But Slate disagreed.
"To the contrary, Monsieur Dupont. What you see here, is one of the main principles of the New World. To turn electric energy into motion. It is true that our current designs still use steam for propulsion, but it is such a messy and inefficient process. Leaking pipes, dripping water, raising columns of steam a mile high. The future lies in electricity! I myself have built apparatus not unlike your own, and by allowing a permanent magnet to slide inside the coil, and alternating the direction of the current, I managed to drive a wheel to a speed far in excess of what a similarly sized steam engine could have achieved. Mark my words, Monsieur, electricity is our key to the future! I am fortunate to have at my disposal one such as you."
"Your humble servant, Monsieur," I said.
Slate looked at me in an appraising manner. "You seem unconvinced, mon ami. What is it that troubles you?"
I cleared my throat. "The... fuel. It may be more potent than coal, as you say, but like coal, one has to dig it out of the ground. One day, Humanity will dig up the last scrap of pitchblende, and then we will be back where we started."
Slate nodded severely. "You are right, of course, my friend. Come with me, and I will show you something."
He took me to his personal laboratory, and from a drawer took a small wooden box.
"Follow me, and behold the future."
I followed Magister Slate up the stairs, past the massive bulk of the airship Aquila, and out onto the mountain top, where there was a railing next to a sheer drop with an incredible view of the desert below. Slate held out his hand.
"Look, Mr. Dupont, and tell me what you see."
"I..." I hesitated. "I see the desert. An endless sea of sand."
"Look beyond that. Look to the heavens, not only with your eyes, but with your mind. Tell me again. What do you see?"
"The... the sky? Mountains? The Sun?"
"Precisely! The Sun! Now observe."
Slate opened the box, revealing inside a magnetic compass with a coil of metal wire round it. As he moved his hand, a lens almost like an eye was revealed, and as he held it up to the light, the compass needle twitched.
"Mr. Dupont, behold the future of Humanity. I have found a way to turn the life-giving light of the Sun itself into electric energy! Even after the last piece of coal has been taken from the bowels of the Earth, after our strong brown men have brought us the last piece of radiation-rich pitchblende, even then, the Sun will still shine. The Astronomers may say that in eight billion years, the Sun will grow, and swallow up Mercury, Venus, and then the Earth, but with eight billion years at our disposal, shall we not part the Heavens and find Humanity a place to live beyond the eternal veil?"
I looked at the compass needle again. "This cell doesn't produce that much energy. It would not turn an engine."
"Then we shall pave the Earth with them! Every street, every town square, every rooftop will have eyes turned to the skies, fulfilling the needs of all. But what about the night time, then? I imagine that would be your next question. But does not your very own laboratory contain a battery that can store for the night the lightening collected by day? All we would need is batteries in sufficient numbers. I see the lightening that dwells in the radiation of pitchblende as a temporary measure, until Humanity frees itself. The real future lies in the rays of the Sun. Solar energy is the roadway to Eternity itself. And you, Monsieur Dupont, are one of us, who put Humanity's first faltering steps upon that road!
I should be proud.
I should be honoured.
I am terrified.
After my inspiring talk with the Magister, I felt the need for some fresh air, some time to myself. Rather than walk back to the Brain Pen, I slowly turned South, towards the industrial part of the compound, with its workshops, ore bunkers, and also the sleeping quarters for our miners. A smaller building stood a little apart, built from stone, with barred windows. I stood still, looking at it for a while. It was obviously a prison. Why would Slate need to confine people who were already trapped in here? As I stood wondering, there was a female voice behind me.
"I keep telling you eggheads. Don't go wandering about, it's not safe. One of these days you're going to be beaten into a bloody pulp by a bunch of these ore diggers and then you'll be sorry."
I turned round. "Good day, Mademoiselle Lee. How are you doing?"
"Marvellous! I've just had a big promotion. Been made President of the Trough. I get to feed and water the stupid idiots who tried to keep some pretty glowing rocks to themselves. Some of them were swallowing them, can you believe it?"
I had of course heard of American gold miners' practice to save for their retirement in this way. If found out, these people would not live to see their retirement. But swallowing pitchblende? That way, they wouldn't even need to be found out.
"That is unwise," I said.
"You don't say," said Miss Lee. "Now just you wait here till I get back, and then we'll put the leash back on and put you back in your nice warm lab. Don't you move an inch now, or Mummy will not be happy."
"I will not move from this spot, Ma'am. Even if hordes of angry dark men try to move me, here I will stay."
"Good boy."
I watched Miss Lee walk to the prison building carrying her bag of bread and large ten gallon jug of water. I looked up at the crater where the airship Aquila sat, like a bird on its nest. My only means of ever returning to civilisation, to face the wrath of my peers. A little while later, I saw movement at the prison, and Miss Lee came out. She walked slowly, and from a distance it seemed she wasn't looking where she put her feet. She passed me a few dozen feet away, making for the barracks.
"Miss Lee?"
She looked up, startled. Had she forgotten all about me?
"Oh. Mr. Dupont. Heel."
I fell in step with her and we set off in the direction of my living quarters. I noticed that all the cheer and high spirits of just a few moments ago had left her. What could have happened?
"Miss Lee? Is something the matter?"
"Shut up and keep walking."
I gave her a quick look, and then I turned aside to a large rock that looked comfortable. I sat down on it. Miss Lee looked at me, not pleased at all.
"What the hell are you doing? I said follow me."
I wiped the dust off the rock next to me.
"Sit down, Miss Lee. One of these Têtes d'Oeuf has wandered off again, and it falls upon you to guard him until he sees fit to start moving again."
"I can pick you up and carry you, you know."
"Noted," I said, moving aside a bit.
Miss Lee gave me a long, intense look. Then, she sat down next to me. Putting my arm round her would have been too familiar, but I had the impression she needed it.
"Do you wish to tell me?" I said.
"No."
I gave a little nod, and we simply sat together for a while, until she took a deep breath, stood up, and nodded her head in the direction of the Brain Pen. Together, we walked back to my laboratory.
"Thank you, Miss Lee."
Miss Lee gave a grunt that almost sounded like a word. I saw her walk to the barracks. She stood up straight, rolled her shoulders, then opened the door and went in. I went into my laboratory. There was a world to invent, and miracles to perform.
I have made progress of some sort. I have converted electrical energy into continuous motion. Given that magnets' opposite poles attract, I have mounted one on a pivot, so that it spins. Two electric coil magnets sit on opposite ends, and pull the permanent magnet towards themselves. The important idea was, once the permanent magnet reaches the electro magnets, to reverse the polarity of the battery, so that the close ends now repel each other. I devised a system with metal wheels that make contact with the right ends of the battery at the right time.
The device is rickety, to say the least. And one problem is that permanent magnets, when exposed to rapidly changing magnetic fields, don't stay permanent. My laboratory now reeks of ozone and sulphuric acid, but I have to say that there is something satisfying and cheerful about my little magnet spinning merrily between the coils. I also need a way to force it into a desired direction. Not knowing whether one's vehicle would go forward or backward at the start would make for an interesting journey. Still, if Slate wants to pave the world with his solar roadways, then the electric engine will be there to move people along them.
I have refined my design somewhat. I have replaced the permanent magnet with another electric magnet, so future electric trains will not have to take on fresh magnets as today they take on water and coal. I have also put more coils round the rotor, and arranged the small wheel switches so that wherever the rotor is, the next set of coils will be activated. I have put in more lead-acid batteries to increase my motor's power. To measure my engine's power, I have attached a spool and some string to the axle.The first results are promising. My little electric friend can easily lift Newton's Principiae, Paracelsus' treatises on acids, and a stack of Hammond's ghastly writings.
With the lights turned off, the blue sparks inside the motor make for an eerie son-et-lumière truly like fire stolen from the Gods. Though the principles are well understood, there is something almost magical about a device that starts moving unexpectedly, with no visible reason why it should. Will I be allowed to name this invention after myself? Does science, or engineering, flourish in captivity? And before I let this go to my head, has anyone else thought of this before me? Back in Paris, I could easily answer that question from our library. Though Slate has provided us with a good choice of literature, I miss the journals. In the end, it doesn't matter. This Eagle's Nest is my world now, and in it, the Dupont Electric Engine is all there is.
I am growing more worried about Miss Brenda Lee. Occasionally seeing her walk round the compound cheerfully bossing us eggheads around, was a small spark of light in this dark place. Now, every time I see her, she is the one who needs cheering up. I would be more than willing to lend my young friend a listening ear, allow her to share what is on her mind, but she is unwilling to. I can hardly force her to reveal her secrets, so I show her my electric engines. I say "my" engines, but my inventions have been shared, and the craftsmen among us, metal workers, blacksmiths, carpenters, have rebuilt my sad first attempts into a much more powerful engine. Now, of course, the engine has grown beyond the capacity of my Gaston Planté batteries, and we are working on providing more powerful sources of electricity. At Magister Slate's advice, we have started to add the radiant crystals from deep underground to our battery acid, but any effect is negligible. Dr. Mason, an Englishman who lived in the Americas until he came to Paris for the Academy dinner, is working with me, trying to optimise the mixture of chemicals to draw forth the lightning. We are making small improvements, but we need huge leaps. To give us something to do while we wait for inspiration, we have constructed an electric locomotive. It is able to propel a mine cart along the tracks almost as quickly as two of our dark-skinned miners can. Which means that two of these poor creatures can occasionally get some rest. Who says that science does not improve our lives?
I found Miss Brenda Lee in my laboratory today. She was sitting on the floor, up against the wall, staring at my very first engine, spinning round in uneven jerks as its battery was almost depleted. I looked at her face, and almost recoiled. She was ashen pale, and looked up to me with hollow eyes.
"Can't do this anymore."
I hesitated, then sat down next to her. My knee briefly touched hers, and she winced at the contact. I reached out, held her hand between mine. She closed her eyes. Bowed her head.
"Those poor bastards in the brig. I thought they just stuck them in there for a few days if they stole stuff, or started a fight, or something. But that's not all they do. They're... trying to make them..."
I held Brenda's hand tighter. She took a few shallow breaths.
"Trying to make them talk. Snitch on their friends. And when they've done it, they send them back. To show the others what'll happen if they don't behave. Sometimes they end up at the bottom of a mine shaft." Brenda swallowed. "Sometimes, that's for the best."
"All that for trying to hide a few lumps of pitchblende?"
"They don't swallow glowing rocks. What would they need those for? They just get picked. Maybe one of them gets too cocky. Maybe one of them talks about getting outta here. Maybe someone thinks he can get into the Mistress' good books and makes up something about one of his friends. It don't matter! They just need an example now and then, and any of 'em will do. To keep them quiet. Keep them scared."
I gently stroked Brenda's hand.
"And you bring them food. You bring them water. Maybe a kind word, or a look of pity."
Brenda scowled. "I look through the hatch. I push a plate under the door, and then I hear them shuffle and take it. I never go in. I try not to think! I'm no better than any of them."
"Yes you are," I said.
"Really? How?"
"You..." I fell silent.
"I just put down the food and the water, and run, and pretend it didn't happen. That they're not people. That they are just animals that have been bad. That I don't see them bleed, because it is too dark. I don't look into their eyes. I hate myself for doing it, but it's the only way I can keep myself from going crazy. Maybe I should just give in. Take a turn beating the shit out of them. Go crazy like them."
"But you won't. Miss Lee, you are still a compassionate human being. You are not like them. Know that those poor souls look out to you for the one glimmer of light in their day."
"There's someone new."
Brenda blurted it out, as though she had been debating with herself to broach this subject, and saying it before she could change her mind. "Some English woman got herself caught by the side entrance. They're keeping her tied down. They're..." Brenda swallowed. "They want to know everything she can tell them. They are... they are seriously..."
I said the word Brenda could not.
"They are torturing her."
Brenda gripped my hand tightly. Gave a single nod.
"And I have to give her water. I have to see her. Hear her. And then I have to walk away, and leave her." Brenda gave me a look filled with despair. "Can't do it anymore."
"I will not stand for this, Mademoiselle Lee. I will go to Slate and demand that he stop this immediately."
"Don't be an imbecile," said Brenda. "You'll be in there with her before you know it, and me too, for telling."
"There must be something we can do," I said. Did I believe it, or did I simply want to hear Miss Lee deny it, and agree with her, and absolve myself?
"I'm all ears," said Miss Lee.
We both fell silent. After a while, Miss Lee stood up. Without another word, she walked out of the door.
Alexandra Tennant: Descent into madness
Hester Klemm - Sitting down - Out of anger - Telling tales - Songs of hope - Angel of mercy - Alone in the world - Accepting the inevitable - Embrace of the end
A MAN OF STEEL
Rina Prescott reporting
I am sure we all know of Mr. Andrew Parsons, the grandson of our illustrious founder, Charles Algernon Parsons, but do we really know him? His creations can be seen in many a nook and cranny of our University. The bathing facilities. The heating system. Many of the apparatus in the Physics, Biology, and Alchemy labs. Your correspondent was lucky enough to secure a little time with Mr. Parsons. He holds no academic title, does not teach students. All he does is create sheer poetry in steel and iron. I was lucky enough to secure about half an hour of his time, chaperoned by his assistant Miss Felicia Sunderland.
In person, Mr. Parsons is an imposing figure, a massive six feet seven in height, taciturn, and heavily built, with a penetrating gaze that gives one the feeling of being measured. He answered my questions precisely, without a word wasted. One cannot escape the notion that he is wondering where the important questions are. He is not married. He has been at Algernon University since almost the day he was born. He created his first mechanism at the age of three, his first steam engine at the age of ten. He can still recall every single rivet on those engines. His interest is broad, including medical apparatus such as prosthetics, civil engineering such as the elevator for Algernon's horse-drawn carriages, but most of all, steam engines. His engines power the famous Beast of Algernon, and the Tennant's airship Lady I, to name but two.
When talking to Mr. Andrew Parsons, one cannot fail to notice that all this sheer genius has not been without ts cost. With his parents passed away, and him not having any human friends apart from Miss Sunderland, one might pity him for his loneliness, but after the interview, Miss Sunderland and I stayed a while to watch him work. Even behind a frightening protective mask and a leather apron, we could see the loving care and attention in his hands as he shaped bars of metal into objects that will move, support, or protect us. His friends and family are his machines.
These pages of text are the most difficult I have ever had to write. These words are not for you, Father. They are not for you Carl, my brother, nor for you, Fatin my sister. Once I am done writing them, I will read them once, then throw them into the fire, in what must seem like a heathen ritual. I care not a whit what it must seem like. I will attempt anything to rid me of this sickness of the mind bestowed on me by that woman. I will write her name. Her name is Hester Klemm.
They put the bag over my head again and half pushed, half carried me across a sandy floor, till I heard a door open, and the sounds of the outside world dimmed. They held my arms. One of them kicked me in the back of the knees and I was pushed down. The blindfold was removed, and Hester Klemm looked at me, smiling. She ran her hand through my hair.
"What is your name, dear?"
I looked back up at her. "You know my name."
"True. But I want to hear you say it. Answer me please. What is your name."
"I am Victoria, the Queen of England."
Hester Klemm laughed. "A sense of humour. So nice to see that in my subjects. Sadly, it is usually the first thing to go once we start. Thank you, my dear."
She stood up, took a few steps back. "Boys? Help Her Majesty out of her clothes, and give her a seat." She crossed her arms. "Vorläufig Hosen anhalten."
I took note that Hester Klemm did not know I understood German, but that was the last collected thought allowed to me. There were three of them. All were large, strong. I was a martial artist. I have been in competitions. I have been in real fights where I could surprise my enemies with unexpected kicks, throws, or punches. But no matter how good you are, once you are surrounded, there is nothing you can do. I tried to jump up, leap at Hester Klemm, but one of them kicked me in the small of the back and I went sprawling. Once I was on the ground, all was lost. They kicked me everywhere they could, pulled me up to punch me down again, stepped on my hands, until the world became a blur of fists, booted feet, and pain, and I could do nothing but try to roll away.
They turned me onto my stomach and one of them stepped on my neck, pinning my face to the stone floor. A hand gripped the collar of my all-environment suit and ripped it off my back. They removed every last scrap of my clothes, then held my hands behind my back, punched me in the stomach to keep me quiet, and slammed me down on a bench. They took ropes, and tied my arms behind me, round the back of the bench. Another rope went round my neck, one round my chest. Finally, they bound my legs to the bench, but not as tightly. They stood back, looking at me.
Hester Klemm walked up to me. She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped some of the blood off my face.
"What is your name, dear?"
I glared at her.
"Go to hell."
"We are already here, my dear. Let me tell you what I am going to do to you. Regardless of whether you cooperate, we are going to hurt you. Not as much maybe as when you do, but still. From now until the moment I will allow you to die, you will be in pain." Hester Klemm pointed at the bench. "You came here by airship. Steam engines, instruments, the most advanced achievements of our society. All to find out what we are doing. All I need is a few sturdy planks, and some rope, and a small stack of bricks. They use this torture method in the Far East, against people who have the incorrect religion. It has never failed. Are you a Christian? Just imagine. I could turn you into a heretic if I wanted."
I opened my mouth to say something, but she slapped me in the face.
"From now on, you speak only to answer my questions. What will happen is this. I will ask questions. You will answer them. If you do not, or if I do not like the answers, I will take a pair of bricks and put them under your feet. This will continue until your legs break, or until this rope breaks. Do you understand?"
I said nothing. Hester Klemm looked at one of her henchmen.
"Hans?"
Hans stepped up and pulled my feet up. Hester Klemm took two bricks, put them under my feet. I felt the rope tightening over my thighs. He let go of my feet.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes," I said.
"Good. Now then. What is your name?" The battle had begun. It was a battle I would inevitably lose. All I could hope for was to hold out until help came. I would have to pick my fights carefully, and this question was not one worth dying for.
"Tennant," I said. "Alexandra Tennant."
They left me sitting on the bench. She had asked me the name of my ship, and I had given it. She had asked me who was on board, and I had told them my father and my brother and his wife. They asked me about Nazeem, and I said I did not know him very well. That had earned me another pair of bricks under my feet. I had told hem he was some kind of mystic, an Indian wizard, but that he might be a fake. The only grey light came through the gap under the door. The rope was pressing into my thighs, the bricks were grating against my ankles. My arms were numb and I was very thirsty. I had stopped bleeding, which was good. I had stopped sweating, which was a sign of dehydration. I tried to close my eyes, retreat into myself, draw away from the here and now.
There was a sudden scream, a male voice, in such pain that he no longer cared about dignity, cared no more who heard him. The screams went on, grew more desperate, diminished to croaks as the man's voice gave out. All became quiet. I strained my ears, trying to hear what was happening, but no more noises came. I could hear loud voices, in German, saying something about coffee. The outer door slammed, and all was quiet but for the inaudible sound of despair.
They came to me in the morning. Hester Klemm and her henchmen. I looked her over. She was wearing a bright white shirt, a grey skirt and half-high heeled shoes over stockings. In the night, I had soiled myself and I stank. She pulled up a chair and sat down next to me.
"Good morning, Alexandra. I trust you have had a good night?"
"No."
"Very good. A truthful answer. Now then. Your ship, the..." she waited.
"Lady I," I said. She slapped me.
"Oh dear. And such a promising start, too. You will only speak when I ask a question." She paused a moment. "Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Do not let me remind you again. Your airship. What armaments does it have?"
"None," I said. "She is a research and light cargo vessel."
Hester Klemm looked at me with a steel expression. "Alexandra. I am most disappointed in you. Do you really think you can lie to me without me knowing it? I don't allow you to be clever enough to lie to me. This will cost you. Hans?"
Hans walked over, and pulled my feet up. A sudden sharp pain stung my knees, and I gasped, but managed not to scream.
"A little bit higher, Hans," said Hester, and put two more bricks under my feet. She looked back at me. "There. Now I must warn you, Alexandra. I have seen men walk away from a stack of three bricks, but never from four. Displease me again, and you will spend the rest of your life crawling." She sat down again, brushed the dust off her skirt. "What armaments does your airship have?"
I honestly could not answer. The pain in my knees was so intense that it had robbed me of the power of speech. Hester Klemm bent over to me. She stroked my cheek gently.
"There, there. Take a deep breath, and answer my question. You wouldn't want another pair of bricks, now would you?"
"No... No. Rapid fire cannon. Fore and aft."
"Thank you, Alexandra. See how much better it is when you don't lie to me?"
"Yes," I managed.
Throughout the morning, I told them everything about Lady I's weapons, engines. I told them how fast she was, how high she could climb. I told them about the evening in Paris, when the airship Aquila abducted our scientists. Then, Hester Klemm sat back in her chair, steepled her fingers.
"My father was on board your airship when it left. Where is he?"
I looked into her eyes, as afraid to answer the question as I was not to answer. I took a breath.
"He is dead."
"You wouldn't be lying to me, would you, dear?" She took a brick from the stack and held it up. "I have as many bricks as I need."
"I'm not lying. He tried to kill us."
It was the first time I saw Hester Klemm lose control of her expression. It lasted only a moment. She looked at her henchman. "Hans, hol den Schwartzen."
"Jawohl," said Hans.
He and the other left the room, leaving me alone with Hester Klemm. She bent over to me.
"You still think there are things we will not do to you, Alexandra. You are still counting on our mercy. Mercy is a thing given to human beings, and you are no longer human. You are nothing more than our little bag of information. My plaything."
The two henchmen came walking in carrying between them a pole from which hung one of the black men from the Belian-Ibelin mine. At first, I thought he was unconscious, but when they dropped him to the floor, he grunted. They pulled away the pole, and he slumped to the floor, moving slowly.
"Look at him, Alexandra," said Hester Klemm. "He has betrayed Magister Slate by planning violence against his servants." She took his wrist in her hand and showed me his blood-stained fingertips. "When your legs are broken, we will tear out your fingernails like this. Then, your toenails. Then, we will hang you by your wrists with your hands behind your back so you can hear your shoulders crack, like we did to him. We will break every one of your ribs so that every breath becomes a symphony of pain, and every cough hell. We will turn you into a creature of pure pain. Do you understand this?"
My breath raced. Hester Klemm slapped me across the face, hard.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes!"
"Good. Hans, we are done with this man. Get rid of him."
"Jawohl!"
Hans picked up the carrying pole. He kicked the man, turning him over onto his back. Then, he put his foot across the man's throat, raised the pole, and almost like a farmer digging a hole, stabbed down, once. The man twitched, then lay still. Hans' companion took hold of his ankles, and dragged him out.
Hester pulled up her chair. "Think very well before answering my next question, Alexandra. Where is my father?"
I have never hated anyone like I hated Hester Klemm. I would never have the opportunity to hurt her like I could now, and God forgive me, I took it.
"His bones lie on the bottom of the Dover Narrows," I said. "You know that he tried to take over our ship. We killed the Jäger on board, but him, we captured alive. But he threatened to stab my brother's child. His three month old baby. We did not want him alive."
"You are lying, and you will be sorry you did."
"I am not lying. We tied his hands and feet together, and hung him from the cargo hook, over the bomb hatch. How he pleaded and begged for his life! And then we cut the rope, and we could hear him scream until he hit the water."
"Du lügst!" Hester Klemm balled her fist, and punched me in the face, again and again. "You are lying!"
I screamed back at her. "Your father died like a sniveling coward!"
Hester Klemm would surely have beaten me to death, if Hans hadn't held her back.
"Ruhe Hester! Du wirst sie umbringen!" He glared at me. "You wish to kill her slowly, is that not so?"
Hester Klemm took a breath, then grimaced in a parody of a smile.
"You are right. I need a drink, and maybe a good lunch. See that she has neither."
She turned round and walked out of the room. Hans turned to me.
"You should not have done that," he said. He slowly ran his hand along the inside of my thigh, then suddenly gave a push. The sudden stab of pain almost made me faint. "Das reicht schon," he said. He turned round and left as well.
They did not return for me that afternoon, nor in the night. I was in constant pain, beyond my abilities to fight it off. My ankles were bleeding. The skin on my thighs was turning a dark colour. In that hour, I knew. I was going to die here. I would be in more and more pain, until my heart would simply stop. I thought of my father, of Carl, of Lady I. I saw their faces before me, worried, looking at me from a great distance.
Then I heard it. A low, humming sound, it took me a while to recognise it as a human voice, but it was. Someone was singing in an African language I didn't know, but that reminded me of Fatin's native tongue. As I listened, a second voice joined the first, and I was struck by the beauty of those voices, even here in this place of despair. For the tiniest amount of time, I was lost in those voices, and then reality hit me again with a fresh stab of pain to my knees. Wishing to give at least something back, I took a breath, and joined my voice to theirs in prayer, in a whisper at first, then louder, as I wanted these men to hear me, to know I was with them.
The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures
He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths...
There was a loud bang on one of the doors, and a loud Prussian voice telling them to be quiet. I heard one of the doors open, and soon after a howl of anguish, the punishment for the audacity of trying to keep each other's spirit up. Soon after, my door opened and a Jäger came in. He brought his face close to mine, so I could smell the tobacco on his breath. His hand closed on my bare breast. His other hand was on my throat.
"Klappe halten," he said. He looked at my body, covered with its own filth, then wiped his hand on his trousers. "You stink," he said, turned round, and left.
I did not pray out loud after that.
The next morning, my door opened. I was expecting Hester Klemm, more questions, more pain. But it was someone else. A woman wearing a Jäger's uniform. She had short brown hair, and as she reached out to me, I could see a dark tattoo under her sleeve. She brushed away my hair, and held a cup to my lips. I pulled my head away, fearing it might be poison.
"Drink," said the woman. "It's water. See."
She took a small sip herself, then held the cup up for me again. I drank.
"Easy," said the woman. "I've got more."
I looked up to her, but she wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Please," I said. "The ropes. Please. It hurts. Loosen them just a bit."
"No. Can't do that."
"Help me."
"Give them what they want," said the woman. "They'll let you go."
"They'll kill me."
She stood up, picked up her bucket of water and the cup. She turned round to leave.
"Wait! My name is Alexandra Tennant. What's yours?"
She stood still for a moment, turned back to me and looked me in the eye for the first time. "Brenda," she said. "Brenda Lee."
"Thank you for the water, Brenda," I said.
She gave a kind of grunt, then walked out without another word.
The door opened, and Hester Klemm came in, looking fresh and wholesome, with her long hair in plaits and her white shirt impeccable. She gave me a warm and cheerful smile. She had apparently mastered her anger, and was back in control.
"Good morning Alexandra. How are you doing? I see gangrene is about to set in, but you won't be walking anytime soon anyway. Don't worry, we won't let the gangrene kill you. We'll take away your legs before that happens."
I said nothing.
"Would you like some news from your family?"
I looked up at her, not sure what to say.
"That was a question, Alexandra. Answer it, or you'll get another pair of bricks."
"Yes," I said.
"Don't ignore my questions again." Hester Klemm beamed at me. "We sent our own airship Aquila after them, and shot your little lady out of the sky. I'm afraid none of them survived. I can't tell you if they burnt to death before they hit the ground, but it made a great show. You should have seen the pillar of smoke, it was beautiful."
"You're lying," I said.
Hester Klemm slapped me in the face. "I did not ask you a question, Alexandra. And after our little chat yesterday, I can't wait for an excuse to put your feet up some more. Your family is dead. They died screaming. If you were hoping for help, there will be none. Oh, and all the things you told us about your little Lady were very helpful. You helped us kill them. Thank you, Alexandra."
I no longer had the strength to keep my expression in check, and she simply sat back in her chair, enjoying the anguish on my face. She was lying. She had to be. Lady I with her massive engines was faster than that lumbering hulk. It was impossible!
Hester laughed at me. "You'll be pleased to know that I've learnt everything from you that I need to. You have nothing else that I need. What comes now is purely for my enjoyment."
"We shot him in the head," I said. "You still think he died a hero. That he told us to kill him. Because you are still his little girl and look up to him. We dragged him out of his hiding place in the boiler room, and then we made him look into the barrel of a revolver, and he pissed himself. Your father died like he lived, a coward making war on defenceless women and children. And he lost."
"You think you are going to make me angry again, so I will kill you quickly." She got up from her chair. "Don't go anywhere. I will be back soon."
She came back, with in her hands a box of matches and a candle. She smiled at me, and took a match out of the matchbox. She struck it, and lit the candle. She took a breath and blew out the match. Then she walked over to my feet.
"Look at me," she said, and played the candleflame under my toes.
Then, she held the candle still.
In a reflex, I tried to pull away my foot from the heat, but trying it sent fresh spikes of pain through my knees. I could smell the smoke. There was nothing I could do except scream. I know now that screaming helps.
"I expect you want me to take the candle away." She had to shout over my screams.
"Yes!"
"That was not a question, Alexandra Tennant."
She kept the candle where it was.
"Would you like me to remove the candle?"
"Yes," I screamed. "Please!"
She waited a few more seconds, then took it away. She held it up to the arm of the chair, dripping wax on it, then set it upright.
"The rules are very simple, Alexandra. Be silent unless asked a question. Not counting screams of course, we are not unreasonable. And still, you keep breaking them. And you know what that means."
Hester bent down and took one of the bricks from the stack. She wasn't as strong as Hans, and she had to put her back into raising my foot before putting the brick under. She raised my other foot, and this time, I felt something give way in the back of my knee. I could not keep silent. Hester Klemm walked over to the chair and picked up the candle. I could not keep myself from shaking as she approached.
"Now you think about where else I can put this candleflame, Alexandra."
She blew out the candle and left.
The next person to enter was Brenda Lee. She didn't say anything, simply put a cup of water to my lips. I drank. She looked me over, and I could see her trying not to lose her calm.
"Holy mother of God, Alexandra. Now is not a good time to piss them off after the big ship got shot down."
"What?!" I stared at Brenda. "They told me Lady I was shot down!"
Brenda's face became suddenly hard as stone. "Forget I said that," she said, and almost ran out of the room.
Hester Klemm came back in the evening. I steeled myself for more of her sadistic gloating. More pain. But I had one thing. I now knew that she had been lying. My family would come for me, if only I could hold out. Whatever this hell-woman would throw at me, I would endure. Father, Carl. They would come to rescue me, and I would be waiting.
She burnt more of my skin with the candle. My feet, my calves, my hands, my arms. I gave her the screams she craved, revenge for the memory of her father. She tightened the rope round my neck, so I couldn't breathe properly, though not enough to make me lose consciousness. Finally, she seemed satisfied for the moment, looking into my eyes.
"You are almost ready to die, Alexandra. Won't that be wonderful, to see your family again?"
"You lied to me," I said. "Where is Aquila? I have not heard her engines for a while. Lady I got away, didn't she? Soon, the authorities will descend on this place and destroy you all."
Hester frowned a moment. then laughed. "Is that what Miss Lee told you? Oh my, I didn't think she would. I must give her something extra for that. I'm glad now I didn't put out your eyes. There is something I want you to see."
She disappeared for a few moments behind the red haze of pain, then returned. She held up something in front of me. A revolver. Soot was on the barrel, and the handle was charred, but I could still see the engraving.
Carl Tennant, and the year Father gave it to him.
"We recovered this from the wreckage of your little airship. So much more durable than the hand we pried it out of."
I started to shake.
"Did you think Brenda was your friend? Your only friend in the whole wide world? I told her to tell you. Now I wonder if it still works."
As I watched, she put a single bullet in the revolver.
"Open wide, dear."
She thrust the barrel into my mouth. Cocked the gun. Pulled the trigger. There was only a click.
"You didn't think it would be that easy, did you Alexandra?"
She put the revolver against my stomach, pulled the trigger again. Nothing happened. Then against my arm. Nothing. Against my thigh.
The revolver went off with a noise louder than anything else I've heard, and a burning arrow of fire shot through my leg. Hester dropped the revolver on the floor, sat down on the chair.
"And now, we will enjoy your death together."
I closed my eyes, tried to breathe slowly. Finally, after all these days, I started to feel numb with the blood loss. Just a few more minutes, and all would be over. I felt strangely at peace with the fact that it had been Carl's revolver that killed me, the final instrument of mercy. Soon, I would be with him.
I vaguely registered noises with me in the room. A male voice shouting wordlessly, Hester's voice. Then, the voice of Brenda Lee, who had betrayed me, shouting. Then suddenly, mere inches away from my face, a voice.
"Alex? Drink this."
I opened my eyes, and saw my brother's face. He held a cup of water to my lips, and I drank. It tasted bitter. I smiled at him. My mind floated away, and then I knew nothing.
I have read this document now. I have added details as I remembered them. I will, on reflection, not consign them to the fire just yet. Not until I have answered my questions. Did I fight well? Did I win? Did I lose? Did I survive? How will this episode affect the rest of my life? I still cannot walk without crutches. I still wake up in the middle of the night, recalling each and every one of Hester Klemm's questions. Feeling the ropes. The candle flame. The anguish of knowing that all my family was dead.
I will think on this, and maybe then, burn these papers.
Carl Tennant: Hunters and prey
Live to fight another day - Dizzying heights - A mother's wrath - Return to the Nest - Friends you have not killed yet - A heavy burden - In the arms of Morpheus
THE DEVIL'S COCKTAILS
Linda Davenport reporting
It is not often that us mere students are invited into the Alchemy laboratories in Building Four, a safe distance away from the rest of the buildings. I can tell you, it is quite an experience. Building Four is where our Alchemy Professors and their brave (or dare I say 'expendable') undergraduate students probe the depths of all manner of alchemical compounds. Since nothing very dangerous was taking place, Prof. Lowe allowed your reporter to walk the dread hallways and even enter one of the laboratories itself.
We can dispel any rumours that our faculty is producing perfumes. Despite the presence of fume hoods, a lingering smell of experiments past remains. When we think of Alchemists, we picture cackling madmen with glass Erlenmeyers, pouring drop after drop of dangerous substances together, until an explosion follows. This, dear readers, is a profound misconception. The truth is even more frightening. I was shown some of the apparatus, which uses a blast furnace to heat up noxious substances to hundreds of degrees on the Celsius scale, and forces them together, creating chemicals that have no right to exist in the fresh outside air, and often do so only for the briefest of moments, before exploding with prodigious force.
To show the Clarion the full experience of an Alchemy career, your reporter was invited to try on some of the protective gear for working with high energy compounds. The ensemble uses a mixture of natural heavy leathers and steel plates to rival the heaviest of High Street corsetry. Over the trousers and jacket, an apron is worn. A steel-and-leather helmet and face mask and a pair of leather mittens complete the look. A special feature is the self-contained breathing apparatus that provides the user with fresh air imported specially from the Swiss Alps. We have to admit that these clothes lack in elegance, but retaining all one's limbs in an unburnt state is a look that will never go out of fashion.
Finally, Dr. Lowe remarked on the fact that so few young ladies choose to follow a career in Alchemy, especially high-energy Alchemy, and warmly, nay very warmly recommended it. So ladies, throw your instincts of self-preservation to the winds and apply for one of these exciting courses.
We only just made it, Nazeem and I. If it hadn't been for Alex' suppressive fire, they would have caught us. Though if I had known at that time what she would have to endure, I would have given myself up willingly. She is in her bed now, with Fatin watching over her, deep in the arms of Morpheus. How much of her we managed to save, I don't know. But I am getting ahead of myself.
As Lady I took us up, still climbing the rope ladder, we turned round to pick Alex up from her sniper's position. But we were too late. The monstrous shape of the airship Aquila appeared on our port, guns blazing, and we were forced to flee. We did not see what happened to Alex, being too busy saving our own skins. Fatin was at the helm, and if it had been anyone else, our Lady would have been shot down in flames. Lady I's mighty engines hefted her aloft and away from our pursuers, until their cannon could not aim at us. I ran to the bridge, to see Father, calmly sitting in the Captain's chair, his pipe between his teeth. Riley was at one of the telescopes, looking down.
"Father! Alex is still down there! We have to go back for her!"
Father slowly looked round to me. "If we do, my son, we will die. First, we need to escape our pursuers. Only then can we think of returning for her. Let us hope she will be able to keep out of their hands."
"Fatin." I turned to her. "Take her around. We must..."
"Don't be a goddamn idiot." Riley's Yankee accent cut through the air. "If we go back there, we'll be shot out of the sky."
"Steady as she goes, Fatin," said Father. He stood up, and walked up to me. "Last time I looked, Carl, you were not the captain of this vessel. We will return for Alexandra, but we will do so when we have a chance of rescuing her. At present, we do not."
"They'll kill her, Father," I said, the blood drained from my face.
"They'll put her through the wringer first," said Riley. "And you'd better hope and pray that they do, because if they just shoot her, we'll be wasting our time and our lives looking for her."
Nazeem walked in. "It was given Nazeem to know that Miss Alexandra has been captured, and that they have not killed her. Rejoice upon this knowledge."
"How do you know that, you fraud? And don't start about your bloody spirits."
Nazeem's eyes darkened. "They are not my spirits, Carl Tennant. Nazeem thanks them upon his knees for every word they speak to him, and so should you. Miss Alexandra lives. You would do well to show gratitude for this."
"She's not going to stay alive for much longer," I said.
"First, we shake off that floating monstrosity of theirs," said Father. "Then, we return to save Alexandra."
I was sitting in the aft gun bay, looking through my telescope. In the distance, Aquila still loomed, unwilling to give up, though we were gaining. The whistle in the speaking tube sounded, and I removed it.
"My love?" I remembered Fatin's face when first she heard Alex' voice through that tube. "Captain Philip wants you on the bridge."
"On my way," I said. I climbed the ladder, trotted through the mess hall, through the cargo hold, and onto the bridge. Father arrived a minute or so after me and handed Fatin a thick fur coat that had belonged to my mother. He gave me my duffel coat. Our son Raage was all but invisible under a stack of blankets in his cot tied to the railing.
"These devils will not give up," said Father. "I don't want to be chased away too far from Alexandra. So we will go where they cannot. We will take Lady I up as high as she can go, then turn back. Mr. Nazeem? You're not wrapping up. It's going to get cold in here."
"Nazeem has the Spirit of Fire. He needs no other trappings than these."
"Suit yourself," said Father, with a sneer. "Fatin? Up, up and away!"
Fatin nodded, and turned to the hydrogen controls. "Breathe in deep, my friends," she said in the Ajuru language. "We are going to play with the Sun, won't that be fun?"
I could hear the drum of the hydrogen pumps, pushing more of the lighter-than-air gas into the envelopes, and saw the Earth fall away from us. I could hear the pitch of Lady I's propellers changing as the air became thinner. I grew anxious, as the pressure inside the envelopes increased. If any of them would rupture, we would be a candle in a cloud of the most flammable gas in existence.
"Higher, Itzel. Higher Iris!"
Their names sounded strange to my ears in the Ajuru tongue, and for a moment, I could have sworn I'd heard women's laugher. Lady I shot up like a cork in a bathtub. Presently, ice flowers started to form on the bridge windows, and our breath floated before us in little clouds of vapour. There was a whistling sound and Fatin leapt round, turned one of the hydrogen wheels back.
"Don't scare us like that! I know you like to, but now is not the time for playing with us. Won't you rise a little higher? The Sun and the Moon are waiting for you. You have left the clouds below, won't they be jealous?"
The air became thin and cold, losing its flavour, like tea made from too much water and not enough leaves. I felt light in my head, and had to fight to stay awake.
I could hear that the pitch of the engines had changed, the noise of the propellers. Lady I's fires burnt lower, starved of the air that machines and living creatures need.
Fatin's dark eyes turned upwards to Lady I's envelope. She whispered words of encouragement, then adjusted the hydrogen controls.
"Philip," she said, in English, "This is as high as she will go. Isn't she clever?"
Father smiled. "She certainly is. Well done, my child. Well done my Lady. Now take her round."
Fatin uncoupled the propellers for a few moments, reversed the pitch on the port propeller, then engaged them. Slowly, sluggishly in this thin air, Lady I turned. I ran to one of the telescopes and looked down. Far below us, struggling to rise to our height, was the monster. I could see people small as ants scurrying about on its top deck. Father walked up and pushed me away from the telescope. He grunted.
"We are faster to rise, but at some point, they'll catch up. I have had enough of this. Carl, man the fore'ard guns. Nazeem, aft guns if you would. Riley. In the cargo hold is a case of thermite grenades. Do you know what to do with those?"
"Now we're talking," said Riley, and limped off.
"What's the plan?" I said.
"We're going to jump them from above, and give them a concentrated taste of Hell." Father grinned. "Use one of the red ammo drums, they're all incendiary rounds. We're going to light up the sky!" He turned to Fatin. "Now, we'll show those devils that our Lady has talons. Dive down on them, then fly over them."
"Yes Captain Philip," said Fatin. If she was afraid, she did not show it. She turned to the controls. "Do you see the ship below? It is an old lion, hungry and dangerous. It wants to hurt Alex. Today, our spears will pierce it, and we will wear its skin."
She pushed the ailleron controls, and with a cracking of her beams, almost like a man cracking his knuckles, Lady I turned her nose downwards. I lowered myself into the freezing gun deck, open to the elements once I opened the firing slit and pushed the cannon out. I blew on my hands to warm them, loaded up the red drum of fire bullets, gripped the handles, and waited. Someone blew the whistle, and I answered. It was Father.
"Hold your fire until the last moment. We want the incendiary rounds still to be hot when they strike."
"I understand, Father." I sneered at the funnel that would carry up my voice. "Ready to fire on your command."
"The effective range is five hundred yards," said Father. "Do I have to tell you everything? You have two eyes."
"I..." I thought of several excellent answers to that, but decided not to. "Aye-aye, Father."
With hydrogen streaming from the safety release valves like a banshee wail, Lady I came plummeting down. I picked up my binoculars, and saw several people on top of Aquila, armed with some kind of gun. I grabbed the speaking tube.
"Father! Gunmen on top!"
"We've seen them. Fire at will. Fire!"
I lined up my sights, and pushed the button. The Andrew Parsons Repeating Rifle Mark Two roared into life and spat round after round of magnesium fire down at the airship Aquila. Return fire flew up to meet us, but they had had to improvise their rifle mountings, and most of their shots went wide.
None of mine did.
I painted a dotted line of bright light across Aquila's canopy. I could see fire breaking out in dozens of places. I could hear the angry noise of bullets striking the gondola. That was fine. It could take it. As long as they didn't hit the envelopes, all would be fine. In a flash, Aquila zoomed past. I could see bright white lights against the clouds as Riley's thermite grenades fell down towards Aquila, through her damaged canopy, into their supply of gas. Finally, I heard the tearing noise of our aft cannon.
Lady I lurched as one of her propellers reversed its pitch, and the ship threw itself about. A few hundred yards below us, I could see an inferno of bright yellow flames. Aquila was burning, burning beyond rescue. Lady I shot upwards, and as I watched, the whole of Aquila's cigar shaped form exploded and plunged to the ground in burning fragments. I waited a few more minutes, but nothing presented itself for me to shoot at. I climbed the ladder to the bridge. Father and Riley were standing by the windows, one of which had a star-shaped bullethole in it.
"Is everybody all right?"
"They aren't," said Father.
"Well," said Riley. "That there, is why these things never took off for heavy combat duty."
I walked over to Fatin. The first thing I saw were her bare feet on the cold hard metal floor. Tears were freely streaming down her face. I put my arms round her. She buried her face in my collar and sobbed.
"So many people," she said, in Ajuru.
I stroked her hair, gently rocked her. "I know."
Father and Riley came up on the bridge. Father put a glass in my hand, and poured two fingers of the Scotch single malt whisky that he kept for special occasions. He raised his glass to me.
"To Lady Iris," he said.
I raised my own glass. "To Lady Itzel."
I had put Fatin in bed with little Raage, and I was at the helm. We were at maximum altitude, heading back to Slate's lair, with the setting sun in our backs. Nazeem was sitting at the window in his meditative pose. Riley was in his cabin. Father was on his throne, pipe unlit in his mouth as some of Aquila's bullets might well have made it through our envelopes and we would need to check them soon. The engines were operating at half speed. Soon, we would shut one down and reduce the power on the other, to glide towards our objective in near silence. Nazeem and I would enter, find Alex, then take her back with us. Then we would fly back to Khartoum and warn the authorities. We arrived at the mountain just as the sun disappeared below the horizon. Father took over the helm.
I dressed in my desert khakis. I'd dropped my revolver in our run to freedom, but at my belt was a twenty inch kukri and one of the pistols we had taken from the Jäger, weeks ago. It seemed fitting somehow. Nazeem bore no weapon, but would rely on his magical powers to overcome his enemies. I had long given up arguing against him. He could use the power of love for all I cared. If worse came to worst, he could always pick up a rock. As soon as we were down, Lady I would rise back up, with Riley at the for'ard machine guns for fire support while we were outside. There was a knock on my cabin door, and I opened it to see Father. He handed me a first-aid kit consisting of bandages, slings, a tourniquet, and field dressings. I slipped it onto my belt without a word. He put his hand on my shoulder.
"My son, I have added one more thing. There is a bottle there with enough morphia to kill a horse."
I looked at him, blankly, for one or two long moments.
"Understood," I said.
"Use it wisely," said Father.
We didn't bother with rope ladders, but slid down a long rope to the desert sand, a few hundred yards away from the side entrance. We reasoned that with aquila gone, the enemy would expect us to mount an attack from above. We would try to enter by stealth. Nazeem, having the better night vision between us, went first. After half an hour's slow march, we reached the entrance to the tunnel that had nearly cost us our lives the first time. With practice, we would get used to this tunnel.
We slowly crept forward into the mountain. The guard post was lit with a single lantern, drawing a circle of light on the floor. Two guards, armed with rifles, sat on the ground, looking out. I put my hand on Nazeem's shoulder. Pointed at him and the guard on the right, then at myself and the guard on the left. It is often said never to bring a knife to a gunfight. That may be true, but this was not a gun fight. I took up my position, then waited and watched. I saw Nazeem at the other end of the circle of light. He saw me, then leapt forward as I did the same, kukri out. The guard tried to bring his rifle round to me, but I was already too close and could simply push it aside. My knife came round and I sliced his throat. Next to me, Nazeem had his arm round the other guard's neck. He pushed, and there was a cracking sound.
We dragged the guards to a hiding place in the dark, then entered the cavern. Lights were on in the complex to the North, and the squat wooden buildings to the West. The rest of the cavern was dark. I pointed at the lights, and Nazeem nodded.
We set off. As we approached the lit buildings, there was a noise behind us and we dropped to the floor. A soldier carrying a lantern, a water jug, and a large bag, was walking at a brisk pace to the buildings. With one look at Nazeem, I walked up behind him. I grabbed the back of his collar, kicked his knees, and put my kukri to his throat.
"Hello," I said. "My name is Carl Tennant. Be quiet, or I will take your head off. You have my sister. Tell me where she is."
"Tennant?"
I nearly let go. This was a woman's voice.
"You are looking for Alexandra Tennant?"
I took a tighter hold on her collar. "I am. Take me to her."
I could feel her hesitating. I pressed my sharp blade to her throat. "It'll either be you or the next soldier we find."
"Okay, I'll take you to her," said the soldier. "Just don't blame me for what she looks like. I had nothing to do with that, you understand? Nothing."
"What do you mean?"
Nazeem put a hand on my shoulder. "They have not been kind to her. We must hurry."
Keeping a firm hold onto the soldier, we relieved her of her revolver and walked to a building we had missed in the gloom. It was made of bricks, with the windows barred and shuttered against the light. Shivers went up my spine. This was a place of evil.
"Any guards?" I asked.
"One," said the soldier. "The only pig who likes this detail. All the entertainment he wants."
"If he..."
The soldier turned her head round and scowled at me. "Anything you can think of, he'll have done it. What the hell do you think this is, a hotel? He likes boys if that's any comfort."
"Carl Tennant, now is not the time to think of revenge." Nazeem stepped forward. "First, we must bring Alexandra to safety."
"For what it's worth," said the soldier, quietly, "I hope you do."
We entered the prison building. There was no guard in the expected place.
"Busy," said the soldier.
"Nazeem perceives his location. He will subdue the guard, and stop what evil he is doing." He disappeared into the gloom.
"This way," said the soldier.
There was a single gunshot. I would have recognised it anywhere, any time. It was my own revolver. I pushed the soldier woman away, tore open the door and ran in, to a sight that I should have expected. Alex, tied down, beaten black and blue, bleeding. A blonde woman was sitting on a chair, watching Alex. She jumped to her feet, cried out for the guard, but she was too late. My kukri came round, and passed through her neck. I kicked her body, and her head fell to the floor. Blood spurted up high, her heart pumping it to a head that was no longer there. A hellish desire came over me to make her suffer till her very last moment. I took her by the hair, swung the head round, and dashed it into the wall.
I turned to Alex. Oh merciful God, Alex. They had tied her legs down to the point of breaking. Beaten her, burnt her, humiliated her, and finally shot her through the leg, to make her bleed to death slowly. I raised my kukri to free her, but there was a shout from the female soldier, and she grabbed my hand.
"No! Not like that! Slowly. Easy. It'll hurt her more if you cut it suddenly."
She kneeled by Alex' legs, and started to untie the knot that held her legs down. I took the first aid kit from my belt. Pulled out the bottle of morphia. I took the cup from my water bottle and half filled it. I carefully put ten drops of the drug in the water, swirled it round to mix it in. I stepped over to my sister.
"Alex? Drink this."
My sister turned her head towards me, fought to open her eyes. I put the cup to her lips and she drank the water. She smiled at me, tried to say something, but then her eyes closed and her head slumped down.
The soldier woman untied the knot, and slowly let out the rope. That done, she gently picked up Alex' feet and took away the stack of bricks. I cut the rest of the ropes, and had to support her to keep her from falling.
Nazeem came in, a serious look on his face.
"Miss Alexandra lives, but she has suffered much. There are others here who have suffered like she has. Nazeem has seen to the needs of one. The other must return to his comrades, that they may take care of him. Nazeem will stay with them, and help them as he can."
I put Alex in the chair, started to wind a bandage round her bleeding leg.
"Who will see to Alexandra's needs?"
"You will," said Nazeem.
"You want me to fight my way back to Lady I carrying her?"
I tied down Alex' bandage, checked her for other life threatening injuries. There were burns, cuts, bruises, and God only knew what she looked like inside.
"I can hold your gun for you," said the soldier.
"Very funny." I gave her a hard look. "What's your name?"
"Lee," she said. "Brenda Lee."
"Well, Miss Lee, if you think I'll give you a gun, then you are insane."
"But I like guns," said Miss Lee. "Oh well then. How about I carry your sister for you instead? Take care though. I'll be carrying her over my shoulders, so if you want to chop my head off, you'll hit her instead."
"You look a bit... small."
Miss Lee sighed. Then, she took off her jacket and put it on Alex.
"You done with her?"
"For now, yes."
She took Alexandra's arm and pulled her unconscious body over her shoulders. She looked at me.
"We going?"
I picked up my revolver, stuck it in my belt.
"One more thing."
With my kukri, I hewed at the back of the hell-bench till the back was a sharp point. Then, I picked up the blonde woman's head, and put it on the point.
Miss Lee whistled softly. "You're nasty, mister Carl Tennant."
"I can think of nastier people."
Nazeem took the one remaining prisoner away, while we made our way back to the side entrance. Miss Lee did not seem to make much of the burden.
"I must say, it's well you are as strong as you are."
"I lift," said Miss Lee. "Try it sometime."
"Before your lot came here, I was lifting ore here. It is not as healthy as you think it is."
"No argument there."
The guards at the side entrance hadn't been replaced yet, and we could leave the mountains of madness unmolested. When we were well away into the desert, I set off my blue flare, and like a ghost's whisper, Lady I came down. The side door opened. I held out my arms for Alex.
"Miss Lee, for your help you have my sincere thanks. You can give her to me and return to your station now."
Miss Lee sneered at me. "Are you kidding me? What do you think will happen if I go back there and tell them I've been on a stroll with Vlad the Impaler? I'm sure they can cobble up another one of those benches. They thought I was getting too friendly with your sister anyway. I'm coming with you."
I hesitated only a moment. "Welcome on board Lady I, Miss Lee."
Miss Lee carried Alexandra on board, and we were met by Riley. He eyed Miss Lee up.
"Did you trade in our brown voodoo man for a chick?"
"Oh crap," said Miss Lee. "Not another damn Yank."
Riley grinned. "Well you are mostly a Yank. What's the other half?"
Miss Lee smiled sweetly at him. "Bit of friendly advice Mister. You want your nuts to stay where they are, you shut up about my ancestry."
"Well, ain't you a little ray of sunshine. We can still chuck you out, you know?"
"You and what damn army?" Miss Lee pointed at Alexandra. "Where do you want her?"
"Follow me," I said.
We put Alex in her bed as Lady I rose to a safe altitude, out of the reach of gunfire and prying eyes. Father came in as fast as his prosthetic leg would carry him. He looked at Alex, and turned pale.
"Dear God, my daughter! What have they done to you?"
"Messed up her legs, starved her for two days, beat the crap out of her, burnt her, then shot her in the leg," said Miss Lee. "Oh. Was I supposed to say you don't wanna know?"
Father looked at her. "And you are?"
Miss Lee threw off a perfect salute. "Former United States Marine Corps Sergeant Brenda Lee Sir! Reporting for whatever the hell you want me to do."
At that moment, Alex stirred, looked at us through swollen eyelids. Father dropped to his knees at her side.
"Alexandra."
Alex took a little time to speak. "Father? Is everyone alive?"
Father took Alex' hand. "You're alive, my daughter. You are safe. Everything is going to be all right."
Alex tried to move, and gasped suddenly. "My legs... They... My legs."
Miss Lee bent over Alex. "Your legs'll be just fine. Seen guys sitting on a bench like that for much longer than you have, and two weeks later, they were working the mine again. You'll be running again in a month, believe me."
Alex looked at her. "Brenda?"
"Yeah, it's me. Harder to get rid of than a yeast infection. Now you take some more medicine, and you get some sleep will you?"
Alex gave her a little nod. I gave her a few more drops of morphia to drink, and she sank down again. Fatin came in.
"All you men. Get out. There is woman's work to be done here."
"Don't mind me," said Miss Lee.
"I don't know you. But get out. I will speak with you when Alex is clean." She turned to me. "My love? Large bowl of warm water and cloths. Also there is nobody at the helm, and maybe Itzel and Iris are playful. Go!"
There was no denying Fatin's words, and we all filed out of the room, leaving my beautiful wife to take care of my sister. Father walked to the bridge to take the helm, and Riley followed him, leaving me alone with Miss Brenda Lee.
"Are you sure she's going to be all right?"
Miss Lee gave me a hard look. "Want me to lie to you as well as to her?"
I bowed my head and went to fetch a bowl of hot water for Alex. When I returned, Fatin was in bed with Alex, quietly singing to her, one of the ancient songs of soothing and healing. Alex had her eyes closed. I put down the bowl. Fatin gave me a quick smile. Just before I left, I heard Alex' drugged whisper.
"They broke my legs, Fatin." Alex sobbed. "They broke my legs."
Dr. Godfrey Pike: The joys of travel
Wainwright does diplomacy - Alchemical matters - Maternal instincts - The wrath of the giant - Algernon Rifles go forth
HAIL THE CONQUERING HEROES!
Rina Prescott reporting
With the final entrants for the Folkestone Annual Rifle Contest selection rounds having completed their registered attempts, we can now report that Algernon University's representatives will be Miss Carrie StJohn, Mr. Nigel Arterton, and Miss Florence Albrecht, who beat Miss Jocelyn Vale's score by a single point. They will travel to Folkestone at the end of next month with Dr. Godfrey Pike, and be entered in the tournament. They will be competing against teams from all over Great Britain and even overseas, and try to end Eton's winning streak. I'm sure you will join me in wishing them the best of luck. To give them as much chance as possible to prepare, the Browning rifles will be reserved for them.
The tournament will last for two days. To win, our snipers will first have to qualify in three legs of ten shots each, with the top eight teams passing through to the next round. The next day, teams will compete against each other in straight knock-out rounds with the highest scoring team continuing, up until the finale.
Our chairman, Dr. Godfrey Pike, will be accompanying Algernon University's champions to Folkestone, where they will be staying at the Radclyffe Halls. Sadly our founder Miss Alexandra Tennant will not be able to attend the tournament as she is abroad, and it is not known when she will return. I'm sure that news of our efforts will reach her, and that Carrie, Nigel, and Florence will do their best to make her proud.
Standard encryption applied.
Dear Dr. Pike,
This is a short note to tell you that I will shortly be travelling into the Sudanese jungle in the company of the organisation that contacted me. They sign their messages to me with a symbol of a cross inside a crescent moon, make of that what you will. I will make a report upon my return.
Yours,
Wainwright.
Dear Winston,
Young Wainwright is off on a secret mission of his very own, led by uncertain allies. I'm sure he'll do splendidly, but it does feel somewhat like leaving one's child at school for the first time. Well, we'll have to see how he gets on with the other children. Hopefully, he won't get his lunch money stolen.
Meanwhile, Alan and Margaret have finished their work on the Hammond Manuscripts. They invited me over for a chat and a glass or two of Old Gods' blood, which turned out to be Scotch. As far as they can tell, Hammond was working on the assumption that light coming from rocks must mean that some unworldly source of energy dwelt within. While this may well be the case, Alan assured me that he was nowhere near getting any of it out. Margaret noted that as time progressed, the notes became more and more weird and unhinged, no doubt due to the radiation emanating from the rocks combined with the desert heat.
Margaret mostly concentrated on Dr. Sigrid Saknussemm's notes on the expedition's medical condition, and she suspects that some sort of psycho-active compound may have played a part. Whether that came from the rocks themselves, or from the camp site, or indeed whether certain members of the expedition brought some to relieve boredom on a long trip, is impossible to say. Due to this, both Alan and Margaret take the later documents with a lump of salt the size of Gibraltar.
It would appear, Winston, that the name of the game is "Energy", and that our ignilarcenous adversaries are hungry for limitless power. Whether they are likely to succeed is a very good question.
Margaret has recovered well from her ordeal. I can't help feeling responsible for what happened to her, possibly because I am. I have sharpened security, and impressed on Barker that our students are not likely to be the enemy. We have not caught anyone, but on the other hand, I don't think we missed anything either. I'm sure Prometheus will try again. It would be nice to catch one alive for a change.
Yours,
Godfrey
Dear Winston,
I returned from a few hours of supervising our Rifle Club champions at the range, to find Margaret at my door waving documents.
"Results Pike," she said. "I know what killed Hammond's expedition!"
"Some sort of poison from the ore, wasn't it?" I said. "Breathing in the rock fumes."
"Exactly!"
"But we already knew that," I said, opening my door and showing her in. She sat down in my chair and opened her folder.
"You know, what always puzzled me was what possessed a bunch of seasoned alchemists to sit in an unventilated tent causing lots of dust. I don't think they were even wearing face masks. Have you seen some of the protective gear Dr. Lowe has? He looks like something out of an Arthurian legend when he works with some of his more explosive cocktails. So why didn't they protect themselves?"
"They were Americans, you know."
"Well, there's that, but there is more. I was going through poor Sigrid Saknussemm's notes, she was their expedition physician, and one thing I saw is that they became more unhinged as time went by. And that set me thinking. Before we buried them, we took hair samples, blood samples, tissue samples. A lovely way to spend an afternoon in the heat I can tell you. And this is what the laboratory found." She pointed at one of the documents. Claviceps Purpurea."
"Oh," I said. "Well done Professor."
"You don't know what that is, do you?" she said, with a big grin.
"I'm not very close to the details," I said.
"Do you remember the Salem witch trials?"
"Not personally. I must have been busy elsewhere."
"Well, one of the staple foods in Salem was rye bread. And rye is susceptible to a certain parasitic fungus that produces a variety of interesting symptoms in humans. Seizures. Hallucinations. Outbursts of violence. In some extreme cases, it can cause gangrene and your limbs fall off. Bad stuff. And in their addled state, they thought that they were being visited by manifestations of the Goatish One. Now back then, that was perfectly reasonable, because they were ignorant fools. These days, we can detect the psycho-active elements that cause Yanks to go mad. We can detect the chemicals that cause ergot poisoning in the blood. And the name of the fungus that causes it is... Anyone?"
"Claviceps Purpurea," I said.
"Exactly!"
"So what you are saying is that they ate infected bread from home, and then the Yellow Pixies told them to take nice deep breaths of rock dust?"
"That's about the size of it, yes. But even the Americans don't sell infected rye anymore. Anyone caught would be burnt at the stake!"
"Most Salem witches were hanged," I said. "So what you're saying is that someone poisoned the Arkham lot's food supply with fungi to drive them mad?"
"I can't think of another explanation. I wrote to one of my colleagues in Massachussetts to ask if there is any record of rye being infected, just to be sure. He hasn't written back yet."
"Is that fungus native to Africa?"
"No. There aren't many rye farms in Sudan, their staple source of starch is root vegetables. Yams. Cassava."
"Then why didn't Carl Tennant go mad?"
"He didn't normally eat with the scientific crew. Elitist gits." Margaret laughed. "On at least one occasion, didn't sleep with them either. So all he got was a dose of fume or radiation from carrying the rocks. The scientist got the full treatment."
It is our job to consider the unpleasant possibilities, Winston, because usually, they turn out to be correct. Someone had poisoned the Hammond expedition's food supply. The only one not affected by it was Carl Tennant. I went back in my mind. Was young Mr. Tennant, of all people, an agent of The Enemy? I met Carl at the Eiffel tower. It was through his actions, and that of his sister Alexandra, that La Tour Eiffel stands today. But then again, he is the sole survivor of that expedition. My instincts told me that young Carl was probably all right, but instinct is a most unreliable counsellor. The boy doesn't look like the type, Winston. But we shall see. He's out of reach at the moment anyway. If I'd thought I'd kept my worries away from Margaret, I would have been disappointed.
"You're not suspecting Carl of wrongdoing, are you?"
"It's not impossible," I said.
Lesser beings would have given me an earful for disparaging their friend. Margaret, as a consummate scientist, considered the possibility.
"Carl was in charge of the expedition armaments, and he is well able to dispose of about twenty unarmed men and women," she said. "If he had wanted to kill the entire expedition, he would have had many better opportunities to do it. He would have made sure that he himself would survive. As it is, he had to walk through miles of desert, and if Alexandra hadn't found him, he'd have died. People willing to die for their cause usually do so only if absolutely necessary."
"I think you're right," I said. "Someone else must have poisoned the Hammond lot. Part of me was hoping that this time, it would be eldritch emanations from beyond Reality."
Margaret laughed. "Well, I haven't disproven that. I've only given a more reasonable explanation."
And so the soup thickens, Winston. We now have a mysterious figure, using substances not heard of since the Salem witch trials, to drive a whole expedition to what is essentially suicide. I admit I have to think about this for a while. Possibly with the assistance of a stiff whisky and soda.
Yours,
Godfrey
Dear Winston,
Why yes, now that you mention it, I am completely smitten with Prof. Dr. Margaret Enderby, thanks for asking. But I assure you that my admiration for her is purely professional, intellectual, and platonic. Please be so good as to include this in your records.
You find me in a very good mood, Winston, because last night, we had our first real opportunity. We have managed to capture a Prometheus agent alive. The agent targeted not Margaret, not Alan Wadcroft, but Mr. Andrew Parsons.
This time, one of Prometheus' operatives breached a weak spot in our wall, sneaked into Parsons' workshop, and tried to abduct him at gunpoint. Parsons, bless him, tried to reason the man out of it. This was not successful. The attacker, a nasty looking chap of Russian origin, the Yard may know him, then disturbed some project or other that Parsons was working on, pushing a delicate piece of machinery off his work table and onto the floor, where it shattered into precisely nine hundred and eighty-eight pieces. This turned out to be unwise. Good Lord, Winston. Andrew Parsons is usually the most placid of people, but this sort of wanton destruction brings out the beast in him. Our Russian friend tried to use martial arts on Parsons, but Parsons lifted him bodily off the floor and threw him across the room. He then decided to spend the rest of the afternoon elsewhere.
He left the workshop at a run, pursued by Parsons. Unfortunately, this took him through a hallway crowded with students going from one classroom to the next. The man was agile enough to avoid bumping into people, and most students were smart enough not to stand between Parsons and somewhere he wanted to go. He caught up with the Russian, grabbed him by the shoulders and roared at him. Barker and two other porters then took the man into custody, while Miss Felicia Sunderland did her usual fine job of calming Parsons down and shunting him off.
Sadly, there is one stroke of bad fortune. We have a casualty. Miss Carrie StJohn, star marksman of the Rifle Club, could not get out of the way in time and in his rage, Parsons shoved her aside. She fell, and broke her wrist. This means that she wil not be able to compete in the tournament. I have just visited Miss StJohn together with Miss Jocelyn Vale, who is the next competitor in line. She is resting comfortably, her wrist is neatly plastered up, and she wished Miss Vale all the best. Her parents have been notified, and I hope we can dissuade them from bringing charges against Parsons or the University. Chancellor Malcolm Munroe is being suitably contrite. I have asked Parsons to write a report of what happened, which I'll send to you when I get it.
The Russian Prometheus agent suffered mild injuries, and Dr. Bernhardt has applied the leeches, blood-lettings, and bandages and also checked him thoroughly for suicide pills and sharp things. He has been handed over to the local police, who have been made aware that we do not want him to disappear. I'm afraid I had to be less than completely frank about my employment status in Her Majesty's Secret Service. Please be so kind as not to enlighten them about that.
Miss Vale has just now booked every free minute on the range to practice. I'm sure the Algernon Rifle Club will do us all proud, Winston. I will celebrate this evening's success with a nice hot cup of tea and an early night.
Yours,
Godfrey.
Dear Winston,
Please find attached a copy of Andrew Parsons' report, given to me by Miss Sunderland, who stayed a while to discuss it with me. With anyone but Mr. Parsons, I'd believe he was taking the proverbial, but Miss Sunderland assures me that he is completely serious.
Report on events that occurred on //__.
Andrew Parsons.
I was working on the gyroscopic stabiliser for the airship Aeolus. A man came in and asked me if I was Andrew Parsons. I said I was. He then showed me a 9mm semi-automatic pistol and asked me to come with him.
I told him I was working on the stabiliser, and could not come with him. He then said I had to come with him regardless.
I asked him where he wished me to go with him, and he said Windsor Castle.
I then informed him that I am not to leave the University grounds, except with Miss Felicia Sunderland. He then informed me that Miss Felicia Sunderland had died and he was replacing her. Since Miss Felicia is sitting next to me as I write this, I know he was mistaken.
He then told me that if I did not come with him, he would shoot me dead. I argued that if I were dead, I could not come with him.
He showed me the pistol more clearly, and again asked me to come with him. I told him I could not, because I had to work on the stabiliser. It provides essential assistance to the helmsman of the airship Aeolus, and adjusts the ailleron controls depending on the ship's position, keeping the airship level in unpredictable crosswind conditions.
I returned to work on the stabiliser, and he pushed the stabiliser off my work bench, and onto the floor, causing severe damage to the gyroscope, the flywheel attachments, the driving spring assembly, and the external driving rods. It is against workshop rules to modify another person's work without consulting them. Since their thought processes may differ from one's own, one may end up working by different principles than those of the originator, which is sub-optimal.
He aimed his pistol at my head, which is a very serious offence against Algernon Rifle Club rules. One must never aim a firearm at anything but the floor or a permitted target.
I took his pistol away from him. I ejected the clip, ejected the cartridge in the chamber, and put clip and ammo on the workbench as per Rifle Club unloading procedures. He struck my head with his fist, which is against University rules. He tried to strike me again, but I prevented him from doing so by taking his hand and moving him to the other end of the workshop. He then tried to leave by way of the hall, but all persons in breach of University Rules must be brought to the Dean's office. I ran after the man, and upon reaching him kept him from leaving by holding on to his arms. I could not bring him to the Dean's office, but Porters came and took him away.
Miss Felicia came, and took me back to my workshop. She told me not to worry, and that Miss StJohn would be all right. Miss StJohn had suffered a broken arm when I ran after the man and moved her out of my way. At the time, I did not observe Miss StJohn, which was inconsiderate. I wanted to send a letter of apology to Miss StJohn, but Miss Felicia told me that other arrangements would be made.
I have started repairs on the gyroscopic stabiliser for the airship Aeolus, but most of the mechanism is damaged beyond repair, so I will have to start from scratch, using undamaged parts from the existing stabiliser.
Signed,
Andrew Parsons.
Miss Sunderland let me read the report before commenting. I suppose she has been in situations like this before. For all his manual and mental skills, Mr. Andrew Parsons is a large person in a small place. I have seen the mimeographed forms she uses for his letters of apology. They have on them a time and date, what happened, and a personal apology from Andrew himself. A subtle accusation against a world unwilling to accommodate unusual people. I could see that this occasion affected Miss Sunderland more than others.
"He has been in a fight, Dr. Pike. A fight! He has never struck anyone except by accident." She sighed. "He'll have a black eye in the morning, like a little boy who's had a bit of a scrap."
"He won," I said. "And the miscreant is now in the care of the police."
"He lost," said Miss Sunderland. "Every time this sort of thing happens, he loses some of his innocence. I dread the day that he'll conclude that pushing someone aside when things aren't going the way he wants them, will be the logical thing to do. As it is, I'm going to have to talk to Miss StJohn's parents. They probably think he's a monster already."
"Carrie StJohn, yes. Dr. Bernhardt tells me she will recover in a few weeks. Too late for the tournament, but it won't even affect her academic achievements much. I'm sure Andrew will be fine."
"Andrew once overheard a conversation between Chancellor Munroe and Priss Jenkins in Admin, about the amount of coal spent on heating. So he redesigned the hot water system. Five times the amount of warm water, against half the amount of coal. Not a lump wasted. I don't understand how it worked, but it was brilliant. Technically, it was perfect. All of his machines are. But certain people didn't expect so much warm water when they opened the tap." Miss Sunderland sneered. "The plumbers nearly cried when they had to put the old relic back in. And I had to explain to Andrew why he shouldn't have done it."
"How long have you been with him?"
"Since his parents died," said Miss Sunderland. "He was a very large collection of tics and strange habits then. Dr. Schmidt, our psychologist, hardly knew where to start."
"But you did," I said.
"No more than anyone else, Dr. Pike. But I have patience." She stared at the table, a little grin on her face. "And of course, I have employment for as long as we both shall live. Nobody else knows him as well as I do now."
"He is lucky to have you. I wonder if he is as lucky to be as gifted as he is."
"If he weren't, the University would not keep him as they are now. As long as Andrew keeps making these wonderful machines, his place here is secure. The University gets to show him off as their idiot savant, and he gets a roof over his head. Unless, of course, he embarrasses them too much. Then, they'll get rid of him. Or put him in an even smaller cage than where he is now. But that will not happen on my watch."
Miss Sunderland left me to consider the joys of Academia politics. Almost as soon as she'd left, Miss Vale came in and asked me to supervise her, Mr. Arterton, and Miss Albrecht on the range. I have attractive young ladies fighting for my attention, Winston. Academic life agrees with me.
Yours,
Godfrey.
Dear Winston,
I have questioned our Russian interloper. He gave his name as "Dmitri Presnyakov", a stonemason by trade, here for the brickwork on a side building of St. Paul's in London. The Church of England has grown scary indeed if their bricklayers need to protect themselves with 9mm pistols. If Our Lord brings only a sword rather than peace, He may find Himself wanting of firepower. Bricklaying being a job of low wages, I suspect he may have other jobs besides.
There was actually a solicitor present, named Vassili Rebrov, who seemed to scare Dmitri more than anything I could have thrown at him. My Russian is a bit rusty, and I had to remind them several times to speak English. Mr. Rebrov reminded our Dmitri several times, in Russian, that the Brotherhood does not tolerate loose lips. That word 'Brotherhood' really tells you all you need to know, doesn't it? Secret societies, blood oaths, meetings by moonlight, secret handshakes, and all the theatrical pomp that goes with it. Do not betray us, Tovarisj.
What we have here, are rented thugs. Fairly capable ones, but thugs nonetheless. Can I prevail on you and Her Maj's Secret Service to investigate? I would very much like to know who hired our Dmitri, and what they were going to do with Andrew once they had him. Given that they are invading peacful universities, I think you may be able to persuade our Lords and Masters.
While this is going on, I and our three musketiers will be skiving off to Radclyffe Halls, and do our University proud! Wish us luck!
Yours,
Godfrey.
Fatin: Singing away the pain
Walking on sticks - A new friend - No going home - Looking at each other waving spears - There will be blood
First rounds
Jocelyn Vale reporting
Dear Readers, I am writing to you from the opulent luxury of Radclyffe Hall, where we will stay during the rifle tournament. Due to Carrie StJohn's unfortunate accident, it falls to us, Jocelyn Vale, Florence Albrecht, and Nigel Arterton, to defend the honour of Algernon U. I assure you, we will do our very best not to embarrass Carrie or Miss Tennant. We have completed the first round, giving us the chance to check out the competition. There are several strong teams from London, and teams from Cambridge, Oxford, and Manchester. Maybe they will be able to beat us in a target shooting contest, but I'm sure we would win a shootout.
We were put in a pool with teams from Folkestone itself, Glasgow, and Dublin, the only foreign entry in the tournament. I am proud to say that we crushed them, leading by fifteen points or so, with a combined score of two hundred and eighty two out of a possible three hundred. Our Browning sniper rifles have served us well.
Dr. Pike has treated us all to a nutritious dinner away from the hotel, in a seaside tavern he knows from his youth before the last Franco-Prussian wars. They serve mostly fish, and the only vegetarian option appears to be "Fruit-de-mer", which I can tell you now is not fruit. We were joined by a gentleman named Mr. Quentin, who knows Dr. Pike from his army days, and told us the most outrageous lies about Dr. Pike's exploits.
We are turning in early tonight, to prepare for the quarter finals tomorrow. Our rifles are cleaned and oiled, our eyes are open, and our hands are steady. We will be victorious!
My friend Alex was taken by bad people. They hurt her knees to make her tell them things. They wanted to kill her, but Carl came and killed the bad woman who was hurting Alex. He took her head. In my land, only the worst people take the heads of other men, but when I look at Alex, I see why he did it. Alex cannot stand up. I see her try and I see how she hides the pain in her face. Philip came and gave her the sticks he used when he lost his leg. He does not need them anymore.
Alex moves from her bed to the table, and the kitchen. She cooks breakfast for all of us. I do not tell her that I can cook breakfast, because Alex wants to know she can do it. I stand behind her and catch her when she falls. She tells me she can stand, but I know that is not so. Carl gave her a stool to sit on while she cooks. She waited for him to go away and then sat down on it.
When Alex is in the kitchen, I sit with her and give Raage the breast. I will not leave her alone with her pain and her fear and her anger. I sleep in her room now, and Raage sleeps with Carl. I wake when she does, and sing away her pain, like the women in my tribe sang away my pain when Raage came. She tells me I do not have to do this, she has a drink to help her sleep. She does not tell me to go away, even though I can tell she wants me to.
I don't understand the English. Even when they are with their tribe, they are alone. I want to give her my heart, take in her pain, and share it. It is better to carry things together. Tents. Food. Firewood. Joy. Pain. She has shared so many things with me. Helped me understand things. Why will she not let me help her?
I am afraid for her spirit. When she doesn't see me looking at her, I see the anger in her face. When she sees me, she hides her anger, but still I can see it.
My friend Alex is strong. Her knees will heal. She will stand at Lady I's helm and steer her through the clouds.
But will she smile again when she does it?
We have a new friend. Her name is Brenda Lee, and she was a fighter for the bad people who took the men from the tower. I do not think she is a bad woman, but she has done bad things. When the bad people were hurting Alex, Brenda gave her water, but she did not stop the bad people, because she was afraid to be hurt or killed herself. Her waters run dark, and the taste is bitter. The first morning after Alex came back, she was at our door when I came out to make tea for Alex. She asked me if she could see Alex. Her voice was quiet, as one who stalks the forest and does not know if there are lions. When I let her in, her voice became loud, as one who does not want people to know she is afraid of the lions.
Brenda brought cloths for Alex, to wrap round her knees. Her legs do not look good. You can still see where the ropes were. Her skin still has dark marks. The small round wound in her leg has closed. Alex sat on the bed with her foot on a chair, and Brenda wrapped the cloth round her knees. I can see that she has done this often. She told Alex that she would be all right. That it looks ugly now, but that Alex will be running again soon. I can see that Brenda doesn't believe it, and that Alex doesn't believe it. Wrapping Alex' knees adds fresh water to Brenda's cup, and believing her adds fresh water to Alex' cup. With her knees bound in cloth, Alex can stand with Philip's sticks. She tries not to show the pain, but I see it. I think Brenda sees it, too. I want to hold Alex and sing to her, but with Brenda and Alex both being like there is no pain, I can't.
Carl told me that he does not understand how we can sing away pain, even when children come. Maybe Alex and Brenda are singing away her pain, but in a way that I do not know.
Maybe I am starting to understand the English.
We had an all hands today. That is Philip's word for when we all sit at the table, and let Lady I do what she wants, and talk about what we must do. Carl wants to take Alex home, so that a doctor can heal her knees. Riley says that we still need to find out things about the bad people who took the scientists from the Tower. Philip says that we are too few to hunt inside the mountain. Brenda knows all about what is going on in the mountain, but Riley does not think she is our friend. He said that we should hurt Brenda like the bad people hurt Alex, but I don't think he really thinks so. Brenda said she would rip off Riley's leg and beat him with it, but I don't believe that either. There were people in my tribe who always fought like that. They made a baby later. Riley said we need to know what the scientists are making, and if it can hurt us. Brenda said they were making engines like Lady I has, but without steam, and without coal. Riley wants to know more. He also wants to know what Nazeem is doing. Brenda thinks he is dead, but she does not know Nazeem like we do.
The only one quiet was Alex. She drank tea, and looked far away, and did not listen. I touched her arm, and she looked at me and smiled. The drink that makes the pain go away also makes her sleepy. I wish her knees would heal and she would not need the drink anymore. I want my friend Alex back. I want to hear her laugh again.
Philip heard all of our words, and then said that we would fly back to the mountain to find Nazeem and the scientists. Nobody was happy, but we do not leave tribesmen behind.
I was at the helm to fly us back to the mountain. Lady I was as high as she could go, where the air is cold, and she has to work hard to go slow. Philip was on the chair, and Carl and Riley looked down the telescope. Philip said to go down, and I made Lady I breathe out and sink. Lady I is very good when I need her, so I let her play when she wants to. Carl and Riley looked down. Philip said to make Lady I stay between the sun and the mountain so the people inside could not see us, like the hunters stay down wind of the kudu so they can't smell them. I saw Lady I's shadow in my head and made her go forward until it was on the mountain.
Riley said a bad word. Carl said people were shooting at us. There was a loud bang next to us, and a black cloud of smoke. Philip told me to go up, and I made Lady I breathe in and rise as fast as she could.
Sometimes, the kudu smells you even if you do everything right.
Alex came to the bridge with her sticks and asked Philip what happened. Philip said that nothing happened, and Alex should go back to bed. Before she went to the mountain, Alex would have told him to get stuffed. Now, she just turned round and went away. I looked at Philip. He looked back at me, and smiled, and said Alex would be all right. I said yes.
Alex will be all right.
We waited until night, and tried again. We sailed all the way round to the East, and flew high above them, with all the lights turned off. They still saw Lady I, and shot fire at us. They missed. Carl went to the gun deck and fired our guns, but he missed too.
Our tribes sometimes make war. The men go to a field and make a lot of noise. They show the other tribe how strong they are, waving their spears. Sometimes they throw them when they know they are too far away. Then they turn their backs to show they are not afraid and walk away. Sometimes, the Elders meet and drink together, and all is well. Sometimes, hunters come to our camp at night and try to kill us. Our men do not sleep, and they are strong.
We do not stay long in a place where there has been a war. Bad spirits go there and tell the men to do bad things. Elder Hanad is wise, and leaves the spirits to talk to each other, and breaks camp. Sometimes we meet that tribe again somewhere else, and we laugh, and some of their men sleep with our women, and some of our men sleep with their women, and all is well.
Sometimes, there is blood.
We had another all hands. We cannot get into the mountain. Riley said that we could walk to the mountain and crawl in through the side. Carl said that we have tried that, and we will die if we try again. He also said that we have only eight good legs for six people. Raage can't walk yet. Brenda will not go back.
Philip heard us all. He said that we will go to Kodok and send word home. I think that is good, because Alex needs a doctor. Carl set the course, and I sent Lady I through the clouds.
I think of Nazeem. I hope that his Spirits protect him.
Nobody is happy on board, except Raage. Alex is in the chair on the bridge with Raage on her lap. He asks her, but she has no milk. I will give him the breast when Alex feels better.
The wind is behind us. We will be in Kodok soon.
Agent Wainwright: Diplomatic Immunity
News from the Jungle - Ahmad Moghadam - A terrible place - Return to Kodok - The return of Lady I - Fire and brimstone
Accidents will happen
Rina Prescott reporting
I'm sure we all remember the commotion last week when an unknown individual caused an uproar in the main hall, and the efforts of Mr. Andrew Parsons to apprehend him. Carrie StJohn suffered a broken wrist that sadly put her out of the rifle tournament in Folkestone. Her parents have appeared at Algernon University and had a long discussion with Chancellor Dr. Malcolm Munroe. It appears that they want to press charges against Algernon University for negligence.
I have spoken to Miss Carrie StJohn, who is recovering well, and expected to be out of the hospital and back to her studies in a few days, sporting a plaster cast decorated with the signatures of all her friends and classmates, including that of Mr. Andrew Parsons himself, who visited her under the supervision of Miss Felicia Sunderland, to apologise in person. They spoke for almost an hour, mostly about Engineering subjects. When I visited her later, to interview her on recent events, Miss Carrie spoke mostly about Mr. Parson's uncompromising dedication to his craft. She is now seriously considering majoring in Engineering. When asked if Mr. Parsons frightened her in any way, she answered that at first he did, but that first impressions can be misleading and that she now understands him better.
What is the truth? Is Mr. Parsons simply another accident waiting to happen? When next he loses control, will the results be more serious? Or is Mr. Parsons simply the victim of the prejudice of those who look no further than his size, his inability to relate with his fellow humans? Let's not forget that the initial spark of aggression came not from him, but from the gun-wielding assailant who sought to abduct him for reasons unknown. The Algernon Clarion will keep a sharp eye on further developments.
Standard encryption applied.
Dear Dr. Pike,
I have finally managed to make contact with a member of the Moghadam family, namely Ahmad Moghadam, son of Mr. Bouzid Moghadam. Personable chap once you convince him you're not one of his servants. I must admit that this was not my doing, but that of my new friends in the Order of cross and Moon, who I only know as Kotar and Banar. I was taken by carriage, and blindfolded. I'm sure it's for dramatic effect more than anything else. When they pulled the bag off my head, we were deep in the jungle, in the company of a half dozen Arabic soldiers armed with rifles. Ahmad Moghadam was sitting across from me, and was complaining loudly at his treatment. I have learnt a little Arabic, but I'm afraid I could only follow the gist of it. Did they know who he was, what kind of treatment is this, my father will hear of this, you will all be hanged and fed to the buzzards. Exactly the kind of thing to say when you want to make friends.
For my part, I forgive them any transgressions against me, because the next leg of our journey was on horseback. Dr. Pike, I rode an Arabic stallion! He may not have been of the highest of breeds, but truth be told, neither am I. Mr. Moghadam refused even to consider riding one of these beast, until I reminded him of his rich Tuareg heritage, famed for its horsemanship, whereupon he called me an ignorant Kafir, explained to me that his people were Sudanese Arabs, who bred horses back when the Tuareg were still trying to mate with camels, and leapt into the saddle.
We rode on through fairly dangerous country. We were set upon by indigenous people twice, but none of them had firearms, and our Arabic soldiers were well able to send them running. We stopped for the night by a small stream with clear water, and I could practice my Arabic. Our captors and protectors turned out to be patient enough with me to suffer my horrible Oxfordian Arabic accent, as long as I stayed away from such topics as 'Who are you working for', 'Where are we and where are we going', and so on. When asked, they would simply tell me that inshallah, I would find out soon enough. Our dinner turned out to be rice and beans, uninteresting but filling, with tea which is a sign of civilisation. We passengers slept for eight hours, with the soldiers watching over us. I say 'soldiers', but while they seemed to show a military discipline, they had no insignia.
After morning prayers, we set off again. We rode all day, with only small stops for prayers and meals. These lands are dangerous and beautiful, with lush hot humid jungles and wide open plains. We saw some wild animals, which we sent running with a few shots in the air, and one tribe of black people, who Kotar said were cannibals. Those, we sent running with more directed fire, and Ahmad Moghadam's weapons-grade arrogance. Banar led us without hesitation, in as straight a line as possible, wasting no time.
Ahmad Moghadam became less and less personable throughout the journey, hardly speaking a word, and when he did, it was usually a growl to leave him alone. This went on until one afternoon, I saw him dismount, and he couldn't hide the look of pain on his face. After prayers, I took him aside, and quietly handed him a bottle from my medical kit.
"What is this, Kafir?"
"Talcum powder," I said. "It helps against saddle sores."
He stared at me blankly.
"Do you expect me to put it on for you? Also ride my horse tomorrow. It has a different saddle."
He looked at the bottle in his hand, then back up to me.
"You're welcome," I said.
After evening prayers, I noticed a small stream, and bent down to top up my water bottle. Kotar held my shoulder.
"Do not drink this water. Our destination is near."
I scooped up a small amount of water in my hand, and smelled it. There was a certain undefinable, unnatural tinge about it. I looked round, and though the tall trees were green as ever, the smaller shrubs were smaller, with brown stains on their leaves.
"We are safe now from human enemies," said Kotar. "They do not walk this part of the forest. It is tainted. We must go, and see, and then hurry back."
"Kotar," I said, "What are we doing here? Why have you stolen away Mr. Bouzid Moghadam's son to these wild places? He is as helpless here as a baby, as am I. Why?"
"God willing, you will find out soon, Wainwright," he said. "All I can say is to tighten your belt, for it will not be pleasant." He looked round at Ahmad, who was sitting with his back to a tree, glaring at the world as though it offended him. "You and I have seen things that our other guest has not. Stay close to him, for he will need your help."
We pushed our way out of the jungle, onto a dirt road, rutted by the trail of wheels. The tracks of large beasts of burden, maybe oxen, could be seen, but the tracks were old. Nobody had come this way for months. We rode on slowly, Ahmad and I in the middle, with Kotar and Banar near us and the soldiers spread out around us. There was a frightening sense of watchfulness to their bearing, and I undid the strap on my revolver. Ahmad, riding next to me, stared ahead of him. He had no weapon, and I didn't know if it would have been wise to let him have one.
We rode on until in the distance we saw a kind of tower, made of metal girders, high as a church steeple. Then, we rode through an open gate, with a large sign above it: "Belian-Ibelin Mining Company". The soldiers now drew closer to us as we rode past large wooden buildings. Workshops. Sleeping quarters. Offices. A mess hall. As we drew near, I became aware of a smell that I have only experienced once before in my life, and fervently hope never to again. The smell of rotting human flesh. The sound of millions of flies now came to us.
We dismounted, and we were first led to an office. It had been ransacked, papers strewn about the place. The safe was open, though not forced or blown up.
"This will be where you will spend most of our time here, Wainwright," said Kotar. "This is your domain. Learn from this all that you can."
"The clerk was made to open the safe," I said. "The important things may be gone already. But I will do what I can."
"Good." Kotar turned to Ahmad, and continued in Arabic. "You are here to represent your family, who has a great stake in this company. Do I not guess correctly that you have not received any coal from this place for a long time?"
"I do not discuss my family's business with thieves and murderers."
Kotar gave him a dark look. "Then it is good that we are neither. You will follow us, and observe how the people in your company were treated."
Ahmad hesitated, but decided not to resist. We walked out of the office. The soldiers were clearing vegetation away, and were digging a long trench, six feet wide, four feet deep, and God only knows how long it would need to be. Banar stood by the door to the sleeping quarters.
"Breathe slowly, my friends, and enter."
We entered. Rotting corpses were stacked up high, along one of the walls. Dozens. Hundreds. Most of them women. Some of them as young as four years. Bloated. Skin turned pale, sagging off gaunt faces, screaming silently. Mr. Pike, this was my first mass slaughter, and my first mass grave. May I be spared another, or if I am not, may I be the first to enter.
Ahmad Moghadam turned round, ran out, and we could hear him outside, being violently ill. I managed to keep my lunch, but only barely.
"Wainwright?" said Kotar softly, "you may go to your work in the office now. We will do what must be done."
"Thank you," I said, and fled. I could watch the soldiers work through the window, carrying body after body out and gently putting them into the grave. I concentrated on my paperwork.
I looked in the safe. There were a few thousand Sudanese Pounds in cash, worth maybe three hundred Pounds Sterling. A few bonds, company stock. The attackers' motives could not have been simple theft, or all would have been gone. Papers were strewn across the floor, and as I picked them up, I saw they were mostly written in English, with some Arabic mixed in. It seemed that this mine had had English-speaking stockholders. It took me a while to rearrange them all into date order. It seemed coal production had been going steady for the past year, the coal making its way to the civilised world to warm us, move us. The last entry in the production diary was two months ago, which corresponded nicely to the disappearance from the Eiffel Tower of a group of scientists.
"Prometheus," I muttered. It seemed the thing to do.
There were reports, written in Arabic, of the daily doings in the mine. I may have missed some of the nuance, but it seemed to me that this had not been a good place to work. Every entry started with a brief note of how many workers went down, and how many came up. Accidents were frequent. Cave-ins happened now and then with sometimes as many as two dozen miners lost, buried underground, their bodies never recovered. I was standing on their bones at the very moment. Their names were listed in the diary, both men and women. There was the occasional mention of girls being unable to work, and "sent to comfort". I can think of several meanings of that phrase, but none of them are, well, comfortable.
I had to sit back, close my eyes a moment. There was only one conclusion. This place had been hell on Earth. I have heard of people who stopped eating meat after visiting a slaughterhouse. I almost considered taking a sail boat back to England, knowing what the cost was of our comfort and prosperity. Kotar came in with Ahmad Moghadam, who seemed to have recovered, though he still looked a few shades paler than usual. It had not improved his character any.
"Wainwright," said Ahmad, which was at least a step up from Kafir. "What have you learnt?"
"This happened about two months ago," I said. "Production of coal stopped then."
"My father wll have words for those who saw this, and did not report it. He is a commissioner for this mining company. We will not stand by idly when our workers are treated in this manner. We will now return to Khartoum, and decide how best to pursue and punish these evildoers."
And with that, he walked out of the door, leaving me with Kotar. Our cradles may have stood half a world apart, but the looks we gave each other were perfectly clear.
"People here weren't treated all that well before they were murdered," I said. "My work is not done yet."
"Work quickly, but take the time you need," said Kotar. "Will you join us in prayer for the fallen?"
"I will," I said.
"I will send for you."
I stood next to Ahmad and Banar as Kotar chanted a prayer for the souls of those murdered by the slave-takers of Prometheus. Where they were taken, I did not know. Did they know what had become of their women and children? Could they guess? What could anyone do for them?
The prayers ended, and we got ready to leave. Banar came out of a storage shed carrying jerrycans of oil.
"We do not have Master Nazeem with us to call down the wrath of the Fire Spirits, so this will have to do. We will remove this dark place from the world, and allow the forest to reclaim it, the soil, the bodies of the fallen."
We left with the crackling of flames behind us, and many a dark memory. I have a briefcase full of documents that we should study. Banar tells me that tracks lead to the East, into the desert. We cannot follow them. Instead, we returned on horseback to the city of Kodok. I was shown to a simple but comfortable inn, and said goodbye to my companions, who disappeared into the jungle without a trace. Ahmad Moghadam took the first flight to Khartoum, but he specifically did not invite me along, so I am now in Kodok. I have sent by air mail all the documents I gathered from the mining site. I await your further orders.
If ever you come to Kodok, I can recommend this inn. They do a wonderful Couscous with goat meat and flat bread. Being devout Muslim, they offer only tea to go with it, but there are many things in life that are much worse.
Yours,
Wainwright
Dear Dr. Pike,
I was here in Kodok for three days, awaiting your orders, when a familiar sight appeared in the skies: The airship Lady I. She moored at the airport. I quickly walked up to her, and was invited on board by Captain Philip Tennant.
I'm afraid I have bad news to report. The Tennants made contact with the enemy. Miss Alexandra Tennant fell into their hands, and was brutally tortured before being rescued by her brother. They used a torture device that damaged her knees, and she cannot walk. She also suffered several second and third degree burns to various parts of her body, and a gunshot wound to the leg, luckily missing the bone. In the face of a stranger like me, Miss Alexandra keeps a stiff upper lip, but I can see a gloom on the whole family. After re-supplying, Lady I will make for England so a proper surgeon can examine Miss Alexandra. Please ask Dr. Bernhardt if he knows any specialist knee surgeons, or Miss Alexandra may never walk freely again.
On board Lady I at this time are Capt. Philip Tennant, Alexandra, Carl Tennant, Fatin Tennant, their baby child Raage, James T. Riley of Arkham University, and a Miss Brenda Lee, who used to be one of Klemm's Jäger, until she decided to defect and join the Tennants on board. She is a young lady of acerbic wit and considerable strength, above average for a woman. She has taken on the role of Miss Alexandra's assistant and carer, together with Mrs. Fatin Tennant.
The Tennants have told me that they have found the lair of Prometheus, far in the Sudanese desert, at the final camp site of the Hammond Expedition. I have the coordinates. The miners taken from the Belian-Ibelin mine are there, being forced into mining the pitchblende that seems to be Prometheus' obsession. One of their companions has stayed there under cover, a Master Nazeem, whose name I have heard mentioned once before by my Arabic companions at the mine. He seems to be a high ranking individual in the Order of Cross and Moon.
Though Captain Tennant has offered me passage back to England, I think my job here is not yet done. I will take the next airship to Khartoum and see if I can open relations with the Moghadam family. It will give me the chance to improve my Arabic.
Yours,
Wainwright.
Dear Dr. Pike,
Of mice and men, the best laid plans oft go awry. Ahmad Moghhadam has returned to Kodok, but not on his own. Seven mighty airships darken the sky above this small city. I have spoken with him, and foolishly given him the location of Prometheus' lair. I was expecting him to attempt a rescue of the French scientists, and to try to set free the miners so cruelly torn away, their families murdered. He has no such intentions. The airships contain more fire and brimstone than was used on Sodom and Gomorrah, and Ahmad Moghadam's plan is to utterly destroy the Eagle's Nest, along with the scientists, who he considers collaborators, and the miners, who he considers traitors. I'm afraid I cannot write more. As soon as I post this letter, Lady I will return to Hammond's camp. Being faster than any of Moghadam's airships, we will arrive there at least eight hours before the fleet of destroyers. Hopefully, we will be able to effect a rescue before our rash Arabic friend blows the place to pieces.
Yours in haste,
Wainwright.
André Dupont: The latter days
A gruesome sight - What we are facing - Horses walking slowly - The wages of treason - The web over the world
Smoking on University grounds
Linda Davenport reporting
With nothing but our health and well-being in mind, the Dean has once more drawn to our attention that students are not allowed to smoke tobacco anywhere on University grounds, including the boiler rooms, the disused chapel, the very popular meeting spot behind the stables, and several other places where it is now known that this unhealthy practice was taking place. A full list of these places can be found on the announcement board, and the Dean told the Clarion that regular checks will be held at these locations.
Your reporter would be amiss if she did not probe more deeply into the why and wherefore of this curious habit, or as Prof. Reuel would have it, "art". The main motivation seems to be the image of sophistication provided by smouldering bits of pipe-weed. While the image of the dashing gentleman, cigarette dangling nonchalantly from his lips, or absent-mindedly held between the fingers, does have its appeal, a survey held among the ladies found a strong preference for non-smoking company. One respondent describes the experience with a smoker as "licking out an ashtray". Make of that what you will. When asked, the boys gave no preference for or against. Perhaps they do not wish to impose, which is commendable. Maybe they simply do not care about our health, which is less so. Maybe other considerations prevail. Further investigations are not likely.
Contrary to the old adage, it is not always darkest before the dawn. Simply because things are worse than you have ever experienced, that does not mean that they cannot get any worse. There is a heathen cult that implores their doomsday deity to eat them first, that they may be spared the insanity of the survivors. Their arguments are not without merit.
It was the night after Miss Brenda Lee spoke to me about the atrocities going on in the prison in the South-east of the Eagle's nest. There were loud knocks on our doors, and we were all summoned into the great hall, where there was some sort of construct covered by a sheet. We were gathered, driven round close. Magister Slate stood close by, and his face showed no expression at all. Was this to be the unveiling of some new powerful invention? A glimpse into the future of Mankind? At a gesture of the Magister, we all fell silent, and he began to speak.
"My friends," he said. "I have often spoken to you about our enemies, and as often have I heard you reply, but why? We are men of science! We work for nothing but the betterment of Humanity! To rid the world of smoke belching factories and ear-shattering machines. How can anyone be our enemy? Yes, some of you have even doubted that these enemies even exist! And this angered me, until I reminded myself that you are scientists, by your very nature swayed by nothing but the force of evidence. Truth, gentlemen, is not what a figure of authority says it is, it is what even the merest fool can demonstrate to be true. And I have thanked our Lord and Saviour for the lack of such evidence." Magister Slate's dark eyes looked at each one of us in turn. "But tonight, Gentlemen, to our great misfortune, I can present you evidence of what forces oppose us. I can demonstrate to you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what our enemies are willing and able to do. Behold!"
He pulled away the sheet, and all gasped. Before us was a wooden construction, like a bench of some sort. The top of the back rest had been sharpened to a point, and upon the point was the severed head of a woman. Bloodstains were in her long blonde hair, and her face was hardly recognisable as human, as though someone had hit it with a mallet. Her eyes were open, staring into empty space, her jaw hanging slack and broken.
"This, Gentlemen, is the head of the leader of our protectors, Fräulein Hester Klemm, daughter of the late Oberst Gustav Klemm. The cursed spies that many of you know followed us to our Eagle's Nest to find out our secrets and bring ruin to us. They took her. Her poor body shows signs of ill-treatment to make one's blood run cold. We can only imagine the suffering she endured, refusing to the very end to tell her tormentors our secrets, before finally, they cut her head off her body with many strokes, and displayed it in this grotesque manner to strike fear into our hearts. I must also tell you that another one of our number, another woman, was taken, we know not where. She too may be suffering the inhuman tortures of our enemies even as I speak!"
Slate turned to one of the Jäger standing by. "Take her away, and give her a proper Christian burial, and may God possess her courageous soul."
As Jäger took Hester's head away, Slate turned to us, eyes aglow with wrath. "We will not give in, Gentlemen. We will not falter from our path. We will persevere even in the face of this tragedy, and we will prevail. This, I swear upon my honour, and upon my life. Are you with us, or are you traitors to our cause? Think well before you answer, for you know the wages of treason in the domain of Prometheus. That will be all."
He turned round and walked to his private quarters, leaving us in a state of shock beyond any yet experienced. I could see several people trying desperately not to be sick. As for me, I could hold on to my dinner without trouble. I had looked into the eyes of Brenda Lee, as she told me about the Anglaise fallen into her clutches.
I haven't seen Mademoiselle Lee since, so I assume Slate was talking about her. Maybe those who killed Hester Klemm, also killed her. Maybe she and the attackers were all killed in an orgy of blood, and quietly disposed of. Maybe she was taken prisoner, and as Magister Slate said, now is suffering for the crimes of Hester Klemm. I don't know. I hope she is safe and well.
Today, Magister Slate visited my laboratory again, to observe my electric motors in action. They have grown in power, so that one could use one for a vehicle the size of a small carriage or a locomotive of modest power. We built several of these, and they have the advantage over a steam engine that they don't need to burn anything, and so are suitable for use in mines, where depletion of oxygen would be a serious problem. This has increased our ore production by a significant amount, and as a result Magister Slate is my new best friend. One can imagine how pleased I am with that. I would much rather have been like a brick in the wall, but I suppose it is better than the alternative of being his enemy. The very thought makes me shiver.
We stood by my latest prototype for a while, as it drove a two hundred pound flywheel. Slate looked at me with dark eyes.
"I am pleased with your results, Dr. Dupont. It strengthens my belief that electricity, rather than steam, will be the way of the future."
"Merci, Magister," I said.
"We may need to leave this place soon," said Slate. "I fear that the location of the Eagle's Nest is no longer secret. Our enemies will come to us, trying to destroy us."
"That is... regrettable," I said. "Do you fear aerial attacks?"
"Fear them? No. But I expect them. That cursed airship will have put out the news of our location to whoever wants it, and we can expect visitors soon."
"Will we leave before that happens?"
"No, my friend. We will fight them off!"
"But the Aquila is destroyed. How will we..."
Slate laughed. "Yes, it is true. The loss of our airship is grievous, and my prayers are with her crew. But in the end, Aquila was only an airship. Do not think that because we have lost one of our weapons, we are defenceless! Our enemies will find out to their ruin that to attack us here bears a high price."
"What defences do we have?"
"We have courage in our hearts, strength in our arms, clear sight in our eyes. But we have more than that. We have cannons that improve upon the Ballon Abwehr Kanone by the Krupp Gesellshaft, we have devices that can turn the mountain side into an inferno. But even these defences are simply variations on that which already existed. Above that, we have devices that not a single nation has ever dreamt of, Dr. Dupont. We will bury the Eagle's nest in the charred remains of the enemy's airships before finally we are forced to leave our home."
"That is good to know. But how are we protected from surprise attacks?"
The Magister looked at me with a grim smile on his gaunt face. "The only air force close enough to reach us is in Khartoum. And the very moment they cast off their moorings, I shall know of it. We will not be surprised. We are not defeated yet."
And with that, he turned round, and left my laboratory. It is always good to have a leader who is confident.
I cannot remember a day since I came here that I have not felt afraid.
There is among us scientists a strange mood. We all know that the airship Aquila was destroyed, and that the spies in the English airship got away. This means that civilised people now know where we are. We dare not hope, but it might mean that a rescue will be under way. That our imprisonment in this mountain may soon be over. None of us are working as hard as once we were.
I am keeping my head down as always. The simple practice of my skills is soothing to me, keeping my mind away from the more frightening realities. Back in Paris, I often used the phrase 'lose myself in work'. I would start with empty sheets of paper in the morning, and then, after a few moments, find to my surprise that it was now night and I had no more paper. Here, I flee to my equations, drawings, designs, calculations, because they are blissfully free of any moral decisions. A calculation is correct or incorrect, not Right or Wrong.
My hard work, for whatever reason, does not make me any friends among the other scientists. They are eager to gather evidence of how they worked silently against Magister Slate. I have even overheard whispers of an escape attempt, of sabotaging the devices made on Slate's orders. I am not private to any of these plans. I am seen as one of Slate's lapdogs, licking his boots.
Can I really defend the position that I am not?
I have no words for my feelings at this moment. Disgust, fear, loathing, hatred. These words have become meaningless. New words must be invented for what I feel now. For what I have become. I have washed my hands with rubbing alcohol, with water, and with soap. Still I feel dirty. We are now well and truly complicit in any misdeeds that Magister Nicholas Slate has performed on this world. His crimes are now our crimes. My crimes. No longer do I hope for escape. No longer do I hope for rescue. We have truly forfeited our rights to expect such a thing. Please allow me, not to excuse myself, but only to explain... no, to record what we have done.
It began in the early morning, when the alarm bells were rung. Fearing an attack, I quickly dressed myself and prepared to meet my Maker. But no attack was coming. Instead, we found the Magister and four of the Jäger standing round a steel cage, large enough to hold a large dog, or a small tiger. It held a man, naked. My heart grew cold as I recognised him as one of the Prussian biologists. His name was Ernst Schröder.
"Welcome." Slate's voice was loud and dark. "Have I not explained before, gentlemen, my unwavering dedication to our cause? Do you not remember that our work here, Gentlemen, serves Mankind's very survival? Is there any one among you, who does not remember the fate of Dr. Marius Cjelli, who sought to deceive and betray me? Does anyone think that now, after our grievous losses, my tolerance for treason and failure has grown less?"
A deathly silence fell, only broken by the terrified sounds coming from Dr. Schröder. Slate opened the cage, and kicked it. Dr. Schröder crawled out, stood up with his hands over his genitals, petrified with fear.
"It seems, Gentlemen, that another one of our number has forgotten. It seems that another lesson is in order. But this time, I will make sure that we all learn this lesson." He nodded at one of the Jäger. "Fortmachen."
One of the heavy tables was stood on end. Dr. Schröder's hands were tied to the table legs. We all watched like rabbits caught in a strong beam of light, unable to move. Unable to speak. One of the Jäger handed Slate what I thought was a coil of rope, but it wasn't. With impeccable skill, he cracked the whip over our heads, and we all shrunk back. Dr. Schröder screamed.
"Schröder has betrayed all of us, Gentlemen. He will be punished by all of us. There are thirty of us. Each of us will administer ten lashes to the Good Doctor."
"That will kill him," said someone.
"I fully expect so," said Slate.
He turned round, and the whip hissed through the air, striking Dr. Schröder. A bloody welt appeared on his back, and he screamed. Slate counted out the strokes with a measured voice, ignoring Schröder's pleas for mercy. His work complete, he turned back to us. He pointed at Dr. Gerhardt Schmidt, Schröder's countryman.
"Herr Schmidt. Ten strokes if you please. Do not hold back."
Schmidt looked at the long whip in his hand, then at Dr. Schröder, finally at Slate. He threw the whip on the floor.
"Nein," he said. "I will not be a part of this. I am a man of Science and Reason. I am not a barbarian. I am not an animal."
Hope welled up in my heart. We would simply all refuse. Slate had gone too far, and we would not follow orders so inhuman. We would see to Dr. Schröder's wounds, and he would go back to work.
As you will have guessed, kind reader, that was not what happened. Slate never took his eyes off Dr. Schmidt. He simply held out his hand, and one of our protectors handed him a revolver. Without another word, he shot Dr. Schmidt in the head. Before he fell to the ground dead, we were all cowed, beaten into submission.
Slate picked up the whip himself and administered ten more lashes. The next one of us did not protest. Neither did the one after that. Neither did I.
I was one of the last. Dr. Schröder would already be dead, or unconscious from shock and blood loss. Even if he was not, he would already be in agony, and my ten lashes would make no difference. If I refused, I would die, and he would receive the lashes from Magister Slate, who had much more skill than I did. My weak, inexpert strokes would be a mercy.
Those were my excuses.
They were everyone's excuses.
They are hollow.
Each one of us did these things out of fear for our own lives.
We do not deserve mercy.
We do not deserve forgiveness.
We will not escape.
I was visited by Magister Slate again the next day. I could hardly bring myself to greet him. He gave me a friendly smile, put his hand on my shoulder.
"Do not fear, my friend. I know from your diligence that you are loyal to the cause, and loyal to me. You will be the last to betray me."
"Yes, Magister," I said.
"You have completed every task I have set you, and for that you have my thanks. You are my most faithful companion."
"Thank you, Magister," I said.
"What do you think the reason was for my treatment of Dr. Schröder?"
I steeled myself, and looked into Slate's eyes. "Recent events have affected morale. Production has suffered."
"Exactly," said Slate. "While cruel, it was necessary. Julius Caesar did the same. When morale was low, and mutiny reared its head, he would have the men execute every tenth member. Thus, some soldiers might die, but the cohort would be preserved as a fighting unit. Decimation, Dr. Dupont."
I remember realising at that moment that we had not had much use for biologists in the Eagle's Nest, and Dr. Schröder had been relegated to doing autopsies on deceased miners. Dr. Schröder had been chosen because he was expendable. A thought struck me. Had his escape attempt been orchestrated by Slate himself?
"This 'lack of morale' stems from the knowledge that we will soon be attacked," I said. "Perhaps evidence that we are on the winning side would have been more effective."
"You are right, of course," said Slate. "And I will show all of you that we are not helpless. In fact..." He turned round. "Follow me. Your loyalty deserves a reward. I have something to show you. Who knows? It may even bolster your faith in our organisation."
He took me to a steel door, which opened onto a tunnel leading to a stairwell leading both up and down. We climbed the stairs until we came to a brightly lit hallway, but the light was strangely different from normal gas light. At times, it flickered, but more quickly than any flame could be extinguished and re-lit. I looked round. Strange, almost unworldly devices lined the walls, each with the same eerie glow.
"Did you think you were the only one to appreciate the power of tamed lightening, Docteur? Let me assure you that I have long studied it, and harnessed its power to serve my purposes. This, Dr. Dupont, is the true power of the Eagle's nest. Hidden in abandoned mine shafts below are a mass of Leyden flasks, charged to the brim whenever there is a thunderstorm, waiting for my command."
"Incroyable," I said. This was science far beyond my simple machines.
"Follow me," said Slate, and entered a steel cage in the middle of the room. He carefully closed the door behind me, then turned to a large switch. He threw it, and there was the strong smell of ozone. All round us, the very air itself hummed with the sense of power, until with an ear-shattering noise, lightening shot down towards us. I was sure we would be burnt to a crisp, but Slate only laughed.
"Have no fear, my colleague!" He had to shout over the noise. "Within this Cage of Faraday, we are completely safe. It is those who are not with us who must fear my wrath. With this device, I can bring down the mightiest of air fleets in an instant! Truly, I have stolen the fire from the Gods themselves, and by doing so, obtained their power! This is the power of Prometheus, Doctor!"
He threw the switch back, and in an instant, the lightning stopped, put back into its cage. He opened the door, and I carefully followed him out.
"This is not all we do here, Doctor. Superior even to the power of lightning is the power of knowledge. Here, too, have I made electricity my servant. Observe this device. Using it, I can send and receive messages from all over the world, using the magnetic field of the Earth itself! While our enemies cut down and pulp trees, stain them with ink, and send them on smoke belching airships, my missives fly to the ends of the earth, at the speed of light! London, Paris, Moscow, Cape Town, Khartoum. All are within the reach of Prometheus. This, Doctor, is our true power. This is why we will not be defeated."
Slate cast an eye over a bewildering array of lights and dials. He frowned, tapped a red light that was blinking. From the recesses of the machine, he pulled a small strip of paper, which he ran through his fingers. He looked at the clock and laughed grimly.
"Dr. Dupont, exactly forty two minutes ago, a detachment of seven airships of the 'Brimstone' class cast off from Khartoum. They have set course for Kodok, from where they intend to travel here. They will arrive in three days. We will give them a warm welcome! The sight of their destruction will strengthen quaking hearts."
I honestly do not know whether I fear winning more, or losing.
Carl Tennant: Storm over the Eagle's Nest
West Wind Blows - Plans of attack - Once more into the breach - Pulling teeth - Our constant companion - Nothing left to do but run - Death from above
The less there is, the more powerful
Rina Prescott reporting
I was lucky enough to be granted an interview with Prof. Dr. Janice Brassica, of Homoeopathy. For those who have not chosen this subject, Homoeopathy comes from the Greek word ηομοιος, meaning "The same" and πάθεια, meaning "Patience". The basis of homoeopathy is that to cure a certain disease, we must look in Nature for a thing that closely resembles the disease to be cured.
Because Professor Brassica prefers a practcal approach, she illustrated this to me by chopping up an onion and holding it to my face. This caused minor irritation of the tear ducts, and a stinging sensation. She then proceeded to dissolve some of the onion juice in water, shaking vigorously in a process called 'succussion'. That solution, she then dissolved one-to-one hundred into more water. She repeated this process ten times, creating what is known in Homoeopathy as a C-10 solution, which she then had me drink. Sure enough, the symptoms vanished instantly.
"Science has yet to break the surface on the qualities of water," Prof. Brassica told the Clarion. "Especially in the higher frequencies of existence. How simple water, the most abundant resource in the world, can retain memories of the substances dissolved in it, and apply these to heal, not the disease, but the person, in a holistic sense of the word, is still a mystery that we must probe, always keeping an open mind. Science does not yet understand even a fraction of what there is to know about this most marvellous liquid."
When asked about this, Prof. Lowe of Alchemy was of the opinion that yes, we bloody well do, that water is the simplest molecule after hydrogen gas, and that Prof. Brassica was speaking from orifices not usually associated with speech. Make of that what you will. Your reporter, for one, finds her thirst for both water and knowledge thoroughly quenched.
There is a specific altitude for Lady I where she runs fastest. The air is thin enough to let her long sleek shape through, yet gives enough purchase to the propellers for strength. The Khartoum airfleet had a lead on us of about thirty minutes, due to Agent Wainwright wanting to send some postcards to Ipswich, but we were rapidly overtaking them. After about half an hour, they appeared in our telescopes below us, flying like migratory birds in a V shaped formation. We gave them no signal, and whether they even saw us, I don't know. They soon disappeared in the distance behind us. With Fatin at the helm, and Andrew Parsons' turbine engines in her belly, I honestly believe that there is no faster craft in the sky today than our Lady I. Which was good. Every mile gained on them would give us more time to enter the Eagle's nest, and steal their eggs. Exactly how we were to achieve this, was still a matter of some debate.
I was at the helm, having relieved Fatin so she could feed Raage, who was being very well behaved. Riley was at the navigation table, looking at the map. Father was in the Captain's Chair in front of me, pipe unlit in his mouth, looking into the distance.
The bridge door opened, and Alex came walking in, slowly but on her own legs, using Father's crutches. Miss Brenda Lee was a step behind her, not assisting her, but ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble. Alex walked to the steps down onto the bridge deck, handed one of her crutches to Miss Lee and walked down the steps, holding on to the railing. Just a few days ago, she would have leapt down all those steps without a second thought. I looked at her from behind, and could see her shoulders tightening. I know my sister. I know when she tries to hide what she feels. There are times for pushing through that barrier, but this was not one of them. She reached the bottom of the steps, made her way to one of the observation chairs, and sat down. She turned the chair away from us and looked outside.
Agent Wainwright was in the next chair, trying not to look at Alex. The first time they had met, Alex had put a wrist lock on him for making inappropriate comments, unaware that he was there to protect her. Miss Lee joined me at the helm.
"Steady as she goes, Helmsman," she said.
"Aye aye, Captain," I replied.
"Mutiny?" My father glanced over his shoulder. "Time to break out the cat-o'-nine-tails."
"Always wanted to fly," said Miss Lee.
I stepped aside. "Take the helm. Due East."
"Really?" She put her hand on the wheel. Lady I drifted a bit to the south, and she compensated. With the thin black line once more pointing East, she gave me a quick look, then turned her eyes back to the compass. "You're trusting me."
"We are."
"Why?"
"Speak for yourself," said Riley, turning away from the maps for a moment. "When push comes to shove, our little soldier will run right back to her old friends."
"Little Marine," said Miss Lee.
"Well pardon the hell outta me, Devil Bitch."
"That's more like it," said Miss Lee. "We had orders to beat the crap out of anyone even thinking of leaving and make a damn example of them. What do you think's gonna happen if I turn up again with a cheery Zu Befehl?"
"You've just given me fantasies to last me nights."
"Riley?" Father turned a weary eye to Riley. "Be nice. Miss Lee is about to give us invaluable information on the Eagle's Nest."
"I suppose I am," said Miss Lee.
She handed the wheel back to Fatin, who had put Raage back in the pram, and hopped down the steps. She looked round and picked up a blanket from one of the observation chairs. She spread it out on the ground, folding in the ends to make a rough circle.
"This is the main cavern. North is forward. Main building for the whites is here." She put down a seat pillow on the blanket. "It's got Slate's quarters here..." She put down a coffee mug. "Main hall there..." One of Raage's nappies joined the artwork. "Brain Pen is there. That also has the laboratories." She looked round, picked up one of Raage's toys. "This is the jail, but you already know where that is."
As she went on, more and more odds and ends joined the map on the floor, indicating entrances and exits, buildings, mine shafts. She talked about patrols. Lookout posts. Father asked questions, which she answered without hesitating. We all stared down at the improvised map.
"And that's it," said Miss Lee. "Good luck."
"Good luck to you as well," said Riley. "You're joining the picnic."
Miss Lee's brown eyes narrowed at Riley. "You really want me to go back in there? Why are you trusting me all of a sudden? What if I suddenly turn tails and scream my head off?"
"Given what happened to sweet Hester Klemm, that's an interesting turn of phrase," said Riley. "But we have only three people here with two functioning legs, apart from Missus Tennant, and she's gonna be at the helm."
"Do I get a gun at least?"
"Sure you do," said Riley, grinning like a wolf. "With one bullet in it. We're not unreasonable. If it looks like we're gonna lose, you can take a lead pill."
"Gee thanks," said Miss Lee.
"What did she do, Riley?" I said. "Piss in your whisky?"
"She's one of them goddamn Jäger. I still can't walk right because of them. And I'm not the only one here."
We all looked at Alex, who seemed to have drifted off into thoughts of her own. She blinked.
"What?"
She poured herself a glass of water, reached into her pocket, and took out a bottle of morphia. Riley pointed at her.
"Stop that. I need you with a clear head."
Alex sneered. "What do you want me to do, Riley? Walk through the desert on my hands? I have no suit, no gun, and no bloody legs."
"Can you sit on your ass and pull a trigger? Cause that's what I need you to do, and I don't want you shooting at damn yellow pixies." He turned round, looking at all of us. "Black girl is gonna be at the helm. Captain's gonna be on the bridge. I'm gonna be at the rear guns or the bomb bays, whatever is best. That leaves young Mr. Tennant, our Redcoat spy, and soldier girl, sorry Marine girl to go out and score the goals. Maybe if Nazeem isn't dead yet, he can help, but I wouldn't count on it. So you sneak in, we fly round and make a lot of noise, and then you sneak out again with the eggheads on a leash."
"What if they don't want to come?" I said.
Riley looked at me, waved a hand. "You persuade them with physical evidence and reasoned logic. Or you shoot a few in the head to win them over."
"Nice," said Miss Lee. "Good to know I'm with the good guys now."
"There's seven hundred tons of fire and brimstone heading for them. Don't matter one damn bit how they die. Explain that to them and they'll come."
Lady I was floating only a few dozen feet above the ground, engines spinning at low speed, creeping towards Slate's lair. I was in my khakis, rifle on my back, pockets stuffed with ammo, revolver and kukri by my side. Wainwright had picked up a Mauser pistol left behind by the Jäger who had joined us on board at the Eiffel Tower and didn't need it anymore. Miss Lee was wearing clothes of Alex' that were a bit large for her, a large caliber revolver with a good supply of bullets, and a Bowie knife of the kind that the Hammond Expedition used to give to tribe elders such as Elder Hanad of Fatin's tribe. I looked at Miss Lee, leaning against the wall, with no expression on her face.
"Hey."
"Hm?" Miss Lee looked at me.
"You don't have to do this, you know. Wainwright and I can find the eggheads without you. If it comes to serious blows, we're stuffed, whether we're two or three."
She gave me a kind of half smile. "What is it you Limeys say? In for a penny, in for a pound." She looked at the door. "There's someone in there I need to get out. I don't give a damn about the others, but he needs to get back to Paris."
"Boyfriend?"
Miss Lee laughed out loud. "He's a little brainy geek. I like my men a bit bigger. But he's a good guy. He don't deserve being bombed to death."
Fatin came walking up from the bridge, put her arms round me and kissed me. Wainwright looked away. Miss Lee looked on with interest.
"Good hunting, my love," she said, in Ajuru. "Be the lion tonight, not the kudu." She grinned at me, and ran her finger along my jaw. "Also after you come back."
Sometimes it is nice to have a whole language all your own.
"Did you forget? Lions eat out of my hand. I am the Feeder of Lions."
Fatin laughed, kissed me again, then went back to the bridge.
"Girlfriend?" said Miss Lee.
"Wife," I said. Though we were as married as anyone in Fatin's tribe was, we hadn't actually got round to the paperwork. "Ish," I added.
Riley came walking from the bridge. "We're on the doorstep. Time to go. We have a four and a half hours lead on the Khartoum lot. Don't waste it."
"Right," I said. "See you soon."
Miss Lee went first, setting a brisk pace through the night. There was no moon, but the stars were out and after a while we could see. We had gone for the side entrance so often that by now, they would have either blocked it up or would be guarding it more closely. Instead, we set off to climb to the top, and enter through the top entrance. Lady I would wait three hours, then head for the side entrance and create a diversion with gunfire. Alex had carefully lowered herself into the front gun deck. She had not taken any morphia, so her mind and the pain in her knees would be sharp. I honestly would have preferred her to sleep through the whole expedition, but Riley was right. We needed her, and Alex knew it.
We arrived at the foot of the mountain and started to climb. Since I had made this climb before with the Hammond expedition, I took over the lead from Miss Lee. It was an easy climb. All we needed to do was keep going. Miss Lee skipped up behind me like a mountain goat. Agent Wainwright trudged on doggedly, being more of an urbanite.
At a noise from above, I raised my fist, dropped down flat. Miss Lee dropped next to me, looked up. She raised three fingers, then made a sign like a pistol. I looked at my watch. It had taken us two hours to climb up. We had another hour before the diversion. Miss Lee moved her lips to my ear.
"Anti airship gun," she whispered. "Not good for your wife-ish."
"Going to be knife work," I said.
Wainwright crawled up. "Three against three. Easy."
"Amateur hour," said Miss Lee. "Give me that rifle, and I'll knock them over before they know what hit them."
"Too much noise," said Wainwright. "Gunshots will bring the whole camp down on us."
"It'll bring the whole camp here," said Miss Lee. "We will be long gone."
"We're planning to leave through here," I said. "The less they think of this place, the better. Let's try to do this quietly."
"As you wish, my lord. We gonna keep talking about this? Me and my corps buddies would be half way inside that mountain by now."
"These used to be your comrades," I said. "Do you want to stay back?"
"We haven't known each other that long, Tennant. Still. Have you ever heard me say that I liked being with the Jäger? I loved my brothers in the US Marines. They stand for something. They keep America safe. You don't like America, that's not my problem. These people? They're goddamn hired butchers. I got in 'cause if I hadn't they'd have killed me. We get through this, I'll tell you the whole story."
"I know a couple of stories myself," I said.
"Then stop yakking and get the sons of bitches."
The guards were sitting at their cannon, looking intently up at the sky. We crept round them in the dark and attacked from behind. Wainwright had brought a piano wire. I had my knife. Miss Lee moved like a predatory animal, clapped her hand over her target, and nearly sliced his head off. We dragged the bodies away and dropped them in a ditch.
"There you go," said Miss Lee. "All guards individually hand-killed by skilled craftsmen."
"Saves ammo," said Wainwright.
The Eagle's Nest was in a volcano that the Hammond Expedition geologists had assured me was quite extinct. The mouth was a hundred yards across, and then it opened into a wide cavern. There were stairs leading down, but they would be guarded. Instead, we fastened a rope on the opposite side of the crater. I was the first to slide down. I reached the floor of the cavern without incident, crouched down with my M4 Garand out, and pulled the rope. Wainwright came sliding down, then Miss Lee.
Lights were on in the Brain Pen, where our poor deluded scientists were busily crafting Slate's new world by day and by night. The barracks were quiet. Miss Lee pointed at lights, moving round in set patterns, going from building to building, making sure the miners were fast asleep in their warm beds for a busy day tomorrow.
We hid in the shadow of one of the wooden buildings, waiting for the guards to pass by. I looked at my companions, made a gesture to move on.
"Look out!" Miss Lee turned in a flash and chopped someone in the throat. Wainwright got his legs kicked out from underneath him, and the next moment he was being held to the ground by two men.
I was jumped by a very large dark individual. Before I could do anything, he had me on the ground. His hand was on my throat, and he raised a hammer, hissing something at me I couldn't understand. I tried to push his arm away, but I couldn't breathe, and red spots swam in front of my eyes.
"Hubeda!"
One of his friends grabbed the arm that held the hammer. He looked round, annoyed that someone was disturbing him at his game. His friend spoke to him, fast. The vocal sounds were faintly familiar to me, almost like Fatin's language, but I couldn't understand a word of it. He pointed in the direction of the jail, then at me, whispering furiously. Finally, he drew his hand across his throat. My assailant's mouth fell open.
"Ahhh," he said, in his own language. He let go of my throat, lowered his hammer, and patted me on the shoulder with a bright grin on his dark face.
I looked round. Wainwright was being helped back to his feet. Miss Lee grinned broadly at me.
"You are the Great White Head Hunter. Play your cards right, and maybe they'll make you their king!"
"I'm Feeder-of-lions," I said. "Really. You chop off one head, and suddenly you've got a name." I turned to my new friend. "Nazeem?"
"Ah. Nazeem." He nodded his head and walked off. We all followed him into the sleeping quarters.
"Greetings, Carl Tennant. Miss Lee. Mr. Wainwright. Nazeem welcomes you."
"Greetings, O Grand Poobah," said Miss Lee. "How's things here?"
"Nazeem has spoken to the miners, and they have listened. Our intentions are now at one. To destroy this place, then leave. With all of us acting in accord, we cannot fail."
"Leave where?" I said. "Back to the mine? Did you tell them what happened there?"
"On that matter, Nazeem has kept silent, though there are those among us who have guessed. The Order of Cross and Moon will take these men in care. We will teach them to speak Arabic and English and French, and bring their minds to tranquility. Then, we will offer them a warrior's seat in our Order, or they may leave if they so desire."
"They will need a warrior's seat sooner than that," said Wainwright. "There's an airfleet heading our way. They'll be here in two hours or so. They are not concerned with the well being of anyone here."
"Then we will bring our anger down on the men on patrol, and make for the side entrance."
"No," I said. "Within the next hour, Lady I will attack the side entrance, and draw their attention there."
"That is not wise," said Nazeem. "There are guns on the mountain that can destroy her."
"I know," I said. "We took it out."
Nazeem looked at me. "You took it out. There were three batteries, now there are two left."
"Oh dear," said Wainwright.
Nazeem turned to two of his companions and spoke to them. They nodded, opened the floorboards, and took out hammers, pickaxes, and a few sticks of dynamite that must have been very difficult to obtain. They disappeared into the gloom. Nazeem turned to me.
"Our enemies think they know us," he said. "And before, they would have been right. They taught these men to mistrust each other. They taught them that they were weak. They taught them to betray each other, and fight each other. Nazeem has shown them otherwise. What are your plans?"
"Create a diversion at the side entrance, then lead out the scientists through the top exit and take them on board Lady I before the airfleet arrives."
"That would not have gone well," said Nazeem. "The Jäger can defend both the top entrance and the side entrance at the same time. My brothers will help."
"Tell them they have my thanks," I said. "I think it is time to visit our learned friends."
Wainwright, Miss Lee, and I slowly made our way to the Brain Pen. It was guarded by two Jäger, who we were able to take by surprise. We hid their bodies in the shadows behind the building, but with each attack it became more likely that our victims would be missed. I carefully opened the door, and we went inside. The building had a foundation of stone, with tiles on the floor in a black-and-white pattern. We found ourselves in a hallway with the mountain side on one side and doors going into the laboratories to the other. In some of the laboratories, the lights were on. The Future was being made.
The doors opened outward, to facilitate that rapid exit that many alchemical experiments make so desirable. Miss Lee stood on one side of the door, Wainwright on the other, hand on the handle. I stood a few steps back in the corridor, revolver and knife in hand. At my nod, Wainwright pulled open the door and I stepped in. This laboratory was an Alchemical one, and the three scientists didn't even notice me coming in, so concentrated were they on their work. One of them was watching a thermometer, one was standing by a gas tank, hand on the valve, and a third was dripping drops of liquid into a complicated piece of glasswork with a pipette. I coughed politely.
"Deux cent cinquante... who the hell are you?"
The man at the tank turned off the gas, and the rushing of flames stopped. The man with the pipette looked up, disturbed, and then saw me, armed to the teeth. He stared at me, mouth hanging open.
"Bonsoir Messieurs," I said. "I am Carl Tennant, of the airship Lady I. Would any of you like a lift to Paris?"
Wainwright and Miss Lee entered. The scientists drew together and whispered furiously in French, too fast for me and my school-boy French to follow. Miss Lee stepped forward and poked one of the men with a finger.
"You. Where is Dr. Dupont?"
The man raised himself to his full height. "Who are you to ask? What are your intentions?"
"You bastards don't remember me? I'm Brenda L. Lee, formerly of Klemm's Jäger, formerly of the United States Marine Corps, and I'm the one who's going to kick your butt all over the place if you don't answer my question."
"I'm Wainwright." Nobody seemed to mind him much.
"Do you realise that we were carrying out a synthesis of a highly volatile molecule?"
"Wow," said Brenda, much impressed. "Where is André Dupont? Don't make me ask again."
"You and your friends could have caused this synthesis to go vigorously hypergolic! Do you even realise what that means?"
Miss Lee slowly looked round to me, nodded her head in the direction of the scientist.
"Can I?"
"Go on," I said.
Miss Lee took two steps forward, grabbed the scientist's arm, and slammed him head first into a table.
"I do not give a rat's ass about your synthesis," she said, and put a little more pressure on the man's wrist. "This laboratory and everything in it, is going up in smoke in less than two hours." She moved her face close to her scientists's. "Now if your next words are not 'Dr. Dupont is...' I will rip your arm off and beat you to death with it. Where is he?"
The scientist looked into Miss Lee's soft brown eyes and made a choking noise. "Dr. Dupont is in his sleeping quarters. I can take you there."
Miss Lee let the scientist go and beamed at him. "Thank you! That's really kind of you." She turned to me. "He's my new friend. Can I keep him?"
"Certainly," I said. "Everybody needs friends. Is there anyone here who does not wish to leave? No? Then let's go find your colleagues. Things are about to get a bit noisy around here."
It took us surprisingly little time to wake up all the scientists. There were no guards in the sleeping quarters, luckily. Comings and goings between Brain Pen and sleeping quarters were no reason for alarm. It was fairly common for a scientist to wake up, a fresh idea just sprouted in their fertile minds, and run to their laboratory, sometimes still wearing their pyjamas. Two, maybe three dozen men were now standing in the corridor to their bedrooms. They were sadly not as quiet as they could be, being used to debate and discussion in their daily lives. Wainwright solved this problem by grabbing the first loquacious scientist, putting a big hand on his mouth and hissing at him.
"Ta gueule!" He turned to Brenda. "That's French for shut up."
"He's Prussian," said Brenda. "Just keep his throat shut till he stops talking."
Once more, frank and open discussion in the Marketplace of Ideas was stifled by the threat of violence. What has this world come to, I ask you.
"Gentlemen," I said. "We will now wait for our friends to create a diversion on the East side of the mountain. We will take you to the top of the mountain, where the airship Lady I will take you on board and fly you to safety. Meanwhile, please keep quiet, so as not to draw the attention of the Jäger."
A deep hush descended as we waited for Lady I to open fire. Before that happened, there were other noises. Shouts. Gunfire. Running feet. Brenda, Wainwright, and I looked at each other.
"I think Nazeem's friends and the Jäger have found each other," I said.
"Great," said Wainwright. He opened the door a few inches and looked out. "They're attacking the barracks. Can't tell who is winning."
I looked at my watch. "Diversion is in fifteen minutes. We wait for that, then make our move."
There was a hand on my shoulder, and I looked round into the face of Nazeem. Nobody had seen him arrive. Nobody seemed to have realised that he was not there before. I know all of his so-called magic is nothing but stage tricks. But they are good stage tricks.
"I think it would be wise to leave now. My friends are keeping the Jäger from leaving their barracks, but they cannot hold forever. Leave by the West door and past the mine shafts, to the stairs. Nazeem cannot be with you, nor will he board Lady I with you. His word to the miners prevents him."
"Fair enough," I said. "Messieurs? Meine Herrschaften? Gentlemen? Make ready to leave."
"Move quickly, Carl Tennant, and do not worry about being seen. The time of silence has passed."
"Now we're talking," said Miss Lee, drawing her revolver. She pointed at one of the scientists. "You. Come with me, and stick to me like glue."
"Oh Mademoiselle," said Dr. Dupont, with a smile. "I thought you would never ask."
"Would you two like to be alone for a while?" I said.
"Shut up, Tennant. Don't you have an escape to lead?"
I took out my rifle, and led the way past the mine shafts, staying close to the cavern wall. We kept the scientists between us, with Wainwright in the middle, and Miss Lee taking up the rear. Gunshots could be heard echoing through the cavern. Not all the scientists had seen the need for physical exercise in their lives, so we could move only at a slow trot, with some of our guests wheezing and struggling to keep up the pace.
To the South of the deep mine shafts was the place where the miners' tools were stored, and the buildings where the mysterious ore was stored in lead-lined coffins stacked high. I led our group into the shadows between the ore storage buildings, looking out on the stairs up.
I looked up at another loud noise, this time coming from the outside. The regular, fast rapport of Lady I's armaments. I imagined Alex sitting at the gun, pouring down hate and discontent on any unlucky Jäger foolish enough to show himself in the entrance. On the other side of the crater, I could see the second barracks and guard house, placed there specially to guard the winding stairs leading up to the airship bay. I swore. Half a dozen soldiers came running out of the guard-house and running up the stairs, blocking our escape.
I aimed my rifle at the soldiers on the stairs, fired, cursing Riley's lack of foresight and trust not to give Miss Lee a rifle. I managed to bring down two Jäger. The rest escaped up. No doubt they had guessed something had happened to the top side gunners, and were rushing to their guns to shoot down Lady I.
I turned to Miss Lee. "We have to get up there."
Miss Lee didn't get a chance to reply. Bullets whizzed past us. We had been seen. We put the ore storage between us and the Jäger coming from the guard house. I returned fire with my rifle across the hundred yards or so. It was useless for either Wainwright and Miss Lee to waste their ammo at that range. I emptied my magazine, rammed in another clip of bullets, continued firing.
"VERRÄTER!"
There was a loud Prussian shout behind me, and I looked round to see a large Prussian running towards us from behind the other building. He ran straight at Miss Lee, aiming his pistol. As I watched, Dr Dupont leapt up and recklessly threw himself at a man twice his size, wrestling with his pistol.
Miss Lee shouted, "No!"
The pistol went off, and Dr. Dupont, stiffened, fell to the ground. Miss Lee aimed for the Prussian's head and fired five rounds so fast that it seemed almost like one stretched-out shot. His head exploded in a mess of blood and bone. Brenda ejected the empty shells, reloaded, slammed the cylinder back in. Then, she fell to her knees by Dr. Dupont, turned his face towards her.
"Hey hey! Stay with me!"
I could only see him smile, briefly, and say a few words to Brenda. Then, he choked, coughed up blood, and died. The expression on Brenda's face was frightening to see. She took Dr. Dupont's arm, and in one motion lifted him across her shoulders.
On my other side, Wainwright opened fire with his Mauser. I pulled out my revolver, and together we shot down the soldiers storming over the sand, running towards us. We looked round, but for now, no more enemies came.
There was a massive explosion upstairs. Wainwright and I stared at each other, fearing the worst, but then there was the merciless bright light of Lady I's searchlight, and the rapport of her guns. As I watched, one of the Jäger came tumbling down the cavern and landed on the floor with a sickening thud. Lady I's guns were silent. The searchlight blinked twice, then went out.
"That's our cue," I said. "Let's go! Go! Go!"
Wainwright moved out first, followed by a rather shaken group of learned men. I looked round. Brenda had gone. I called out her name. Wainwright looked round.
"What's up?"
"She's gone!"
"Trying her luck with the Jäger again?"
"I doubt it. Planning a private rampage, more likely. You take them upstairs, I'll go find her."
Wainwright nodded briefly, then made his way towards the stairs, trailing scientists like a pied piper. I ran round to find Brenda.
I didn't have to look far. Brenda came out of the tool shed, carrying the body of André Dupont, a shovel, and a pickaxe. I ran towards her.
"What are you doing?"
Brenda looked at me, an angry look on her face. "I'm gonna bury him."
"Are you mad? Just leave him here. He's going to be buried under tons of rock in an hour!"
"Piss on that," said Brenda. "He was the only decent man in this god-forsaken place. Know what he said just before he died? Thank you for saving me! I'm not going to just leave him behind here."
"There's no time!"
"I don't care. I'm going to dig a grave for him, I'm going to put him in it. Either pick up that pickaxe and help me or piss off."
I gave Brenda a long look. Then, I picked up the pickaxe and started digging with her, my revolver loose in my holster. The grave was small and shallow. Before putting Dr. Dupont's body in, Brenda went through his pockets, found a small black notebook and pocketed it for any family Dr. Dupont might have. We filled the grave, and stood a few moments in silence.
"I oughta say a prayer, but ain't nothing coming." Brenda looked up at me. "We're in a bad, bad place."
I turned at a noise, and saw Nazeem and a group of miners walk towards us. All of them had weapons, taken from the dead bodies of the Jäger.
"It is done," said Nazeem. "Now, Nazeem will lead these poor men to a place of tranquility, that they may put their grief and fear behind them. Farewell, Carl Tennant, Miss Lee. We will meet again. This, it is given Nazeem to know."
Nazeem crossed his arms and bowed to us, then he turned round. A moment later, he and his new soldiers had disappeared into the gloom. I turned to Brenda.
"Are we done here?"
Brenda nodded, then looked up. "Airship's gone. Sorry."
I smiled at her. "Let's try the side entrance."
Now that we had done what we needed to, a sense of urgency struck us, and we ran side by side across the cavern, towards the familiar exit.
"You know what I'm wondering?" I said.
"When this place is going to come down on our heads?"
"Besides that. I wonder where the hell Slate is. Did they get him?"
"Doubt it. They'd be playing football with his head if they had."
"They're headhunters?" I grinned at Brenda. "What kind of man does that?"
Brenda laughed. "Shut up and run."
"Halt! Stehenbleiben!"
"Oh bugger," I said.
Two Jäger, who had faithfully remained at their post when the rest of the world was going to pieces around them, were now standing in front of us, aiming very businesslike pistols at us.
"Ach, Fräulein Lee. How nice to see you again. Did you bring these people down on us?"
Miss Lee made a remark that I hadn't learnt in my German classes. The Jäger laughed at her.
"We are going to have some fun together, Fräulein. For old time's sake."
I pointed a finger up. "Listen, you idiots. Do you hear?"
There was a hush, only broken by the deep drone of airship engines.
"Na und? They have to find us first. And then, our cannons will take care of them."
"Didn't you hear those explosions a while back?" I said. "Your cannons are now a smouldering heap of twisted metal, burning brightly like a beacon in the night. Shall we continue this discussion somewhere else?"
The two Jäger looked at each other, turned round, and ran.
"Bright chaps," I said. "Shall we?"
"I think we shall," said Brenda.
United States Marines spend a good deal of their time running. It is excellent exercise, good for heart and lungs. I could just barely keep up with her, encouraged as we were by the drone of the massive engines of the Khartoum airfleet making straight for the glowing remains of the cannons that were supposed to keep the Eagle's Nest safe from attack. I had come this way before, in a similar hurry, but this time, Lady I was not there to snatch us from the jaws of death. We ran through the crevasse, out into the desert, past the abandoned campsite of the Hammond expedition that started this all, then simply out into the desert. Much too close behind us, we heard the whistle of bombs falling to their target, then bright flashes lit up the world round us. A moment later, we felt the explosions in our chests. We stopped, fell to the ground, looked round. Behind us, it looked like the volcano of the Eagle's nest was erupting, casting its red glow on the bodies of the airships above it.
"Now that is some serious firework," said Brenda.
"We're alive," I said, and laughed madly. "Alive!"
I got up, staring at the devastation in front of me. Brenda sat back leaning on her hands. She looked up at me.
"We're alive in the middle of the desert. All we need to do is walk back to Kodok. Piece of cake. We've got a full water bottle each. Soon as you go to sleep, I'll slit your throat and then I'll have two water bottles. Keep me going for weeks. I like this plan."
"It's a good plan," I said, and pointed. "I've done it before. Nearest oasis is that way. About a week, give or take."
"Right," said Brenda, and got up. "Turn round, please? I want that bottle before you empty it."
"Or," I said, pulling out a flare, "We fly to Paris comfortably in the airship I call home."
I aimed the flare up, pulled the ignitor. A bright light shot up and gently drifted down on its parachute. There was so little wind that it almost came down on top of our heads. Ten minutes later, Lady I's search light shone down on us.
I stepped into the cargo bay, which was a bit noisy at the moment, with at least two dozen men all arguing at the top of their voices. Alexandra was standing in front of them on her crutches, while Agent Wainwright sat on a crate filling his pipe. He gave us a little wave, and went back to looking at Alex, who was rapidly losing patience with them.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"What kind of ship are you running here."
"Have you even given thought to the problem of meals?"
"Where are we supposed to..."
"What are your plans? Do you even have any?"
"Quiet!" Alexandra glowered at them. "We are setting course for Paris. In a straight line. A distance of about three thousand five hundred miles, which we will cover in a little under three days, depending on weather conditions. Should we feel inclined to do so, we will find something to feed you."
"Madam, you are taking us against our will."
Alex bared her teeth, and limped over to the bomb bay door handle. She pulled it down and the bomb bay door fell open. A sudden gust of wind blew through the cargo hold, making her hair blow in front of her face.
"We have prevented the bleeding Eiffel Tower from coming down on the heads of your colleagues. We have been shot at, stabbed, taken prisoner, tortured, all by that bastard Slate that you were so keen to take up with. We are now taking you to sodding Paris and handing you over to the police. Anyone of you who doesn't like this arrangement can leave now!"
Alex angrily pointed into the bomb bay with her crutch. It slipped from her hand and went tumbling into the night. A deep silence fell, as Alex looked down through the hatch.
"Bugger," said Alex.
Godfrey Pike: How far we have come
Radclyffe Halls - An old colleague - Unsavoury tactics - Voluntas - Battles of the mind - The final shootout - Disturbing news
Wheels do not turn on make believe
Linda Davenport reporting
It is easy to find reasons to hate Britain's reliance on coal. The coal itself is mined under dangerous and unhealthy conditions. Burning it releases into the air dark clouds of smoke. Boiler explosions are costly in lives and material. But before we storm Parliament demanding that we abolish coal, we must have a good answer to the question of how we intend to power our factories, light our streets, and warm our homes in its absence.
It has been suggested that we replace our steam engines with windmills, such as the Dutch have been using in the Low Lands to grind their corn for bread, power their saws for sawing planks, and even to keep their heads above the water. But unlike a pile of coal that we can light whenever we wish, there are times when the wind does not blow, and the needs of our industry are constant. Also, a steam engine provides more power than even the tallest windmill.
Another obvious solution is that we free ourselves from the need for constantly turning wheels, but this is not easy to do. The industrial achievements of our age have enabled our country to grow far beyond what it could have without the invention of the steam engine. A solution to the belching chimney-stacks must not involve deporting half of Britain's population elsewhere.
It is clear that we must find a better way of powering our civilisation that will not eventally turn the sky permanently dark, but what that way is, is not clear at all. Universities such as our own, and students such as you yourself, Reader, may well hold the key to the future in our hands.
Dear Winston,
Our small expedition, consisting of Mr. Nigel Arterton, Miss Jocelyn Vale, Miss Florence Albrecht, and myself, have arrived in Radclyffe Halls. We are ready for the first rounds tomorrow. For decency's sake, we have two rooms - boys in one, girls in the other. We have a marvellous sea view, and I can't help noticing that there are no buildings from which to snipe. You never truly retire, do you?
We are not the only contestants here. The hotel staff, after receiving the first couple of teams, are no longer surprised at the sight of groups of young people armed with a variety of firearms. I was amused to notice several undercover policemen casually lounging about in the lobby. Large collections of firearms do bring them out. Well, our rifle bullets are safely stored in the hotel safe as the Rules dictate, and our plans to found the independent Kingdom of Folkestone have been foiled. My slender .22 pistol is nestling in my holster, not even breaking the line of my jacket. I have no intention of bringing it out, Winston. This is my week-end off.
As you may know, I stayed here several weeks on an assignment to intercept a Romanian spy. Ultimately futile, as she had chosen Hull as her port of entry. I remembered well the quaint layout of the place, with its half-floors and crooked passages. The beds were still decent, and the furnishings had been re-done in tasteful greens and yellows. We put our luggage and weapons in the room, and went out to explore the town.
When next you see him, Winston, please tell Quentin that his tailing skills have not left him. They are as horrible as ever they were. I was pleased to see that my favorite seafood restaurant, the Kraken, was still there, even if it was under new management. I took the young folk there, with Quentin behind us. The menu has changed, and is now a bit on the pretentious side, but they do a very nice bisque. Miss Vale, who is a vegetarian, ordered the fruit-de-mer before I could explain to her what that was, but her vegetarianism does not extend to shellfish, so that was all right. Mr. Arterton and Miss Albrecht took their time studying the menu, then went for cod and chips. These young folks and their delicate palate.
As we were having our cups of coffee, Quentin joined us at our table with a very convincing "Well, as I live and breathe! Godfrey Pike?" He introduced himself as my long lost Army friend, and poisoned the youths' minds with the most outrageous lies about my exploits. He did insist on picking up our bill, alluding to that time in Brindisi when I carried him to safety on my shoulders, under heavy enemy fire, all the while hinting that the enemies were the owners and proprietors of a local house of ill repute. Of course my young companions swallowed his stories hook, line, and sinker. Critical thinking, Winston. It's a lost art among today's youth.
As we left, Quentin slipped me the reports on your interrogation of our Russian guest, for which my thanks. I agree with your assessment that there is probably a Prometheus cell at large somewhere in London. We can't have that, now can we? I wish you good hunting, and am grateful to Her Majesty's Secret Service for taking the effort. I am retired, after all.
I have to admit that I worry about the situation back at Algernon U. The place is starting to feel like home. Head Porter Barker can assist you if it comes to direct action at Algernon. I have also briefed Dr. Wadcroft and Dr. Enderby on the information I have received so far, and they are holding the fort at Algernon.
I think I'll take the young folk to the bar, and introduce them to the joys of hotel living. Non-alcoholically so, I hasten to add. Hangovers are not helpful to one's aim, and I do intend to take that trophy home with us.
Yours,
Pike.
Dear Winston,
My troop of snipers have done us proud. They have advanced to the quarter finals of the tournament, beating three other teams by a comfortable margin. Our Browning rifles are well up to the task. I have seen other teams with Olympic-standard target rifles, which have the advantage of being specifically designed for target shooting, rather than ours, which are optimised for shooting people. Whether we would have been as successful with our Lee-Enfields, I cannot say. Team spirits are high. Miss Albrecht has found someone from her previous school and is reviving old memories. Miss Vale and Mr. Arterton are out at the range, scouting the competition. So far, they seem confident, though standards are fairly high. Let's not get complacent.
I have made contact with the local police. Apparently one of the secret policemen recognised me, prompting them to inquire what the hell I am doing here. I told them I am no longer on active duty, and am now Doctor Pike, here to watch over the well-being of one of the rifle teams with a good chance of taking the trophy away from Eton. If they check with you, Winston, please tell them I am here to unmask a group of white slave traders from the Emirates. Keep them busy.
The venue is a fairly modern sports complex. I believe it was intended for the rifle competitions in the last Olympics, which sad to say went to Greece. Their loss is our gain. The shooting range could easily be extended to a full mile. The area for the marksmen is lavishly furnished with soft mats for the children to lie down on. There are benches for the competing teams, and a larger area behind where the teams can rest from their labours while watching the goings-on. Tea, coffee, various fruit juices and biscuits are provided at a modest price. Surely, Winston, we bask in luxury. Lack of comfort will not be an excuse should we fail.
The team captain of the Eton team, a Mrs. Emily Awdry, is giving us funny looks, especially our rifles. She sidled up to me, asking if they were regulation weapons, which I have assured her they are. Then, she asked if she could see one, and I did a little "I'll show you mine of you show me yours." She does seem to know her stuff, and we spent a delightful few minutes comparing tools. Their rifles are a marvel of engineering, with hair triggers so fine you could fire the rifle by merely thinking of the shot, and very precise scopes. Our rifles by comparison are more like workhorses, rugged, proof against anything in a military campaign. Pleasant though it was, I do wonder why Mrs. Emily is taking an interest in our rifles. Professional interest? Does she intend to file complaints about them? A subtle kind of psychological warfare? Or is she merely struck by my devilish good looks? That will be my working hypothesis. Small glasses of sherry by candlelight may well be in my future. Wish me luck, Winston!
Yours,
Godfrey "Casanova" Pike.
Dear Winston,
It is with a heavy heart that I write these words, but damn and blast it, I've been had! We were competing against a Richmond team, and young Mr. Arterton was at the range. Miss Vale, Miss Albrecht and myself were in the wings, with Miss Albrecht using my spotting scope to see how Nigel was doing.
"Nigel, you plonker!" she said, which was a bit unkind.
"What's up?" said Jocelyn.
"He's scored a two!"
"What?"
Jocelyn grabbed the scope, looked. The announcer confirmed our fears. I looked at Nigel, who looked up, annoyed, then fired again. A seven this time, better, but hardly up to his usual standard. The boy scores bullseyes as a matter of course. His next two shots were nines, then he finally hit one bulls-eye. He got up, looking confused, and walked over to us.
"What was that all about?" Florence sneered at him. "Do you want to go home early?"
"Something's wrong with the scope," said Nigel. "I had to aim below the edge of the target to get a ten."
"Forget to set it?" said Jocelyn.
"Do you think I'm an idiot? Here, eight hundred yards."
"Give me that, my boy," I said.
As I turned the range knob on the scope, I could feel it. Plain as plain. It was loose! Someone had turned it a full turn, so that it seemed to be set correctly, but wasn't.
"Has anyone adjusted the scope recently?" I said, to emphatic shakes of heads. Not that I expected anyone to. We know how our weapons work, Winston. We don't need to fiddle with them. There was only one person who had handled that rifle. I looked in the direction of the Eton team, and immediately spotted the smug little smile of Mrs. Emily Awdry. I knew, and she knew that I knew. Nothing to be done about it. I turned to my team.
"Nigel? Run to the girls' room and get the other Browning. Jocelyn? Florence? All is not lost, but we will need to be at our best to win this round. Come with me."
Florence handed Nigel the key to the girls' room. "I'm warning you Arterton. The rifle is in the wardrobe on the right. If I find any of my things messed with, there will be... consequences."
Jocelyn grinned at Nigel. "If they put one of those little chocolates on our pillows, bring that as well."
"Right," said Nigel, took the key, and sprinted off.
I took the girls to a quiet corner, and told them to sit down on the ground, cross-legged. I sat across from them, with a bit more effort.
"Someone messed with our rifle," said Florence.
"I'm afraid so," I said. "I must confess that I let the coach of the Eton team look at our rifle. I am truly sorry."
I blame myself, Winston. I've had mental battles with spies both male and female. I have been beaten up by some, seduced by others, and managed to keep my wits about me. Mrs. Emily Awdry was not the most alluring one by a large margin, and yet she managed to distract me long enough to sabotage our rifle. I simply did not expect such unsportsmanlike behaviour, and I fell for it like the greenest of recruits. It stings, Winston. I'm afraid this is war. I will not allow our chances to be spoiled by this woman. I looked from Florence to Jocelyn.
"I'm going to bloody stab her," said Jocelyn.
"That will get us disqualified," I said.
"No judge will convict us," said Florence.
"Ladies?" I said, rather brusquely. "What has happened, has happened. Please take a moment to accept the situation for what it is, then dismiss it from your mind. It does not matter. It does not signify. It does not exist. All that is important, is our next shots." I sat up straight. "Close your eyes, ladies. Breathe in through the nose, deep but not uncomfortably so. Hold your breath for a few moments, then breathe out through the mouth."
Jocelyn scowled. "What's this? Some sort of heathen mumbo jumbo?"
I gave her a stern look. "Miss Vale. Jocelyn. What we are about to do, is a meditational technique that once enabled me to shoot an artilleryman in the head from a mile away, while his shells exploded all round us. I am loath to teach it for the simple purpose of a shooting match, but we will not be defeated. Now please do as I say. We don't have much time, but what time we have, we will use well. Close your eyes. Breathe in."
Jocelyn looked at me with dark eyes, then did as told. I let the girls take a few deep breaths.
"You are angry," I said. "Breathe in. Feel that anger. It will not help you. Breathe out. Let the anger flow away. Breathe in. You feel the desire to win, to beat your opponents who have wronged you. It does not help you. Breathe out. Let the desire float away. Breathe in. You feel the fear of failure. To fail your friends here. The ridicule of your fellow students back at home. This fear does not help you. Breathe out. Let it flow away."
"Breathe in. See in your minds the target," I said, almost in a whisper. "Outside the circle of the target, there is nothing. See the crosshairs in your mind. Feel the pressure of the trigger against your finger. Wait for your heart to beat slower. Wait for the right moment. Breathe out. Pull the trigger. Watch the bullet fly towards the target. Watch it hit the bullseye. Breathe in. Pull back the bolt, push it forward."
In our minds, we fired five rounds, each of them a bullseye. Florence and Jocelyn sat perfectly still, breathing. I had to smile. Winston, I am proud of them, and of young Nigel.
"Observe, ladies. Take note of the state of your mind. We will name this state, and we will call it Voluntas. Purpose. Say the word. Voluntas. Voluntas."
Jocelyn and Florence, eyes still closed, repeated the word. Words have power, Winston. I need only mention water lilies to Quentin, and he will recall exactly what I am talking about. I was counting on it now.
"Good," I said. "Now open your eyes. Think of nothing but putting the bullet in the bullseye. Nothing else matters. If your mind wanders, repeat the word Voluntas to recall this state of mind."
We got up and made our way back to the range. Nigel was waiting for us with the other rifle. I took it from him, held it up to Florence.
"Remember, my girl. Nothing matters except the next shot. Voluntas."
"Voluntas," said Florence, and walked out to the range.
I sat down on the bench, looked up at the scoreboard. The Richmond team had scored eighty-six points so far. If their third contestant scored the same, they would total one hundred and twenty three. We could ill afford any mistakes. Nigel sat down next to Jocelyn, and gave her a sad look.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Jocelyn gave him a smile. "It doesn't matter. Only the next shot matters."
We all looked as Florence lay down on the mat, took aim. Fired.
"Ten," said the announcer.
There were cheers from the crowd, then hisses to be quiet. Florence fired again.
"Ten."
Even before the crowd settled down, Florence fired again, and scored another bullseye. She fired again.
"Eight."
There was a pause, as Florence composed herself. The audience was completely quiet. She aimed. Fired.
"Ten, for a total of forty-eight points. Mr. Jenkins of Richmond University to shoot next."
Florence joined us on the bench, and handed the rifle over to Jocelyn.
"Voluntas."
"Voluntas," said Jocelyn.
Nigel looked from Jocelyn to Florence. "What are you on about?"
"It's a magic word," said Jocelyn.
At that moment, Richmond's first shot fell, and there were cheers.
"Ten."
"Oh bollocks," said Nigel.
Richmond had obviously saved their best marksman for last. Mr. Jenkins scored two more bullseyes and a nine. There was a lot of noise from the audience, and it took the announcers a few moments to quiet them down. We all craned our necks as Mr. Jenkins aimed, fired again.
"Nine! For a total of forty eight, bringing the final score for Richmond up to one hundred and thirty four! Miss Jocelyn Vale of Algernon University, Ipswich, to shoot next."
"Oh boy," said Nigel, after some mental calculations. He looked at Jocelyn. "Anything below a nine, and we're stuffed."
"No pressure," said Florence.
I stood in front of Jocelyn, put my hands on her shoulders, looked into her eyes.
"It doesn't matter, Jocelyn. Nothing matters except the next shot. Voluntas."
There was a set to Jocelyn's jaw as she repeated after me. Voluntas. She stepped out to the range, lay down on the mat, concentrated. Florence gripped my hand on one side, and Nigel's on the other.
"Come on, Crazy Girl. Let them have it!"
Jocelyn fired.
"Ten."
"Yes!" Nigel raised his fist. "Keep going!"
Jocelyn's next shot was another ten. As she took aim again, there was movement by the target, and to our horror, a pigeon fluttered down, sat down on the top of the target. We all looked at Jocelyn as an assistant came and shooed the bird away with a handkerchief. Jocelyn had put her face on the ground, covered by her dark hair. She looked up, over her shoulder at us. We could all see her suddenly grin. She blew her hair out of her face, aimed, fired.
"Ten."
Almost before the announcer had called out the score, Jocelyn fired again, then again.
"Ten, and Ten Ladies and Gentlemen! Total score for Algernon is one hundred and thirty five! Algernon University continues to the semifinals!"
Jocelyn jumped to her feet, raised the rifle into the air, then came trotting towards us with it slung on her back.
"Christ Almighty," said Nigel. "Are you trying to give us all a heart attack?"
"Got bored," said Jocelyn.
"Well, we didn't," I said. I looked over to where the Eton team sat. Mrs. Awdry smirked at me, and quietly clapped her hands. I turned to my team.
"Well done you all," I said.
"Girls rule," said Florence. "Boys..."
"You all rule," I said. "If Nigel hadn't compensated as well and as quick as he did, we'd be on the train by now."
Jocelyn pulled the brush through the rifle barrel on its string, then pushed the rifle back into its bag. There was a noise behind me, and I turned round to see Mrs. Emily Awdry and her team standing behind me, a false smile on her face.
"Congratulations," said Mrs. Awdry. "It's always good to see a team compensate for the mistakes of its weaker members."
I gave her a warm smile. "Isn't it, though? Well, best of luck to you. I would hate to miss meeting you in the finals."
Nigel looked at their backs as they walked away, then looked up at me.
"That was a dig at me," said Nigel. "She's the one who messed up my rifle?"
"I'm afraid so."
Nigel scowled. "I'm gonna crush them."
This is not over, Winston. If Mrs. Emily Awdry has won previous tournaments using such underhand tactics as these, then it will be my duty and my honour to take the trophy away from her. Doctor Pike is a vengeful Doctor, and they will not escape my wrath. I know my team will be up to the task. And now, I will take them to a bar for well-deserved cups of tea and an early night. Tomorrow, semifinals and finals!
Yours,
Godfrey
Dear Winston,
I am well aware that an account of the deeds of the Algernon Rifle Club has little to do with the sinister goings-on at the University, but indulge me. Some day, Nigel, Jocelyn and Florence may find out that an account of the Folkestone Rifle Tournament has found its way into the archives of Her Majesty's Secret Service. In any case, it is a nice change from murder, torture, and bloodshed.
We left our hotel early, to go to the venue. I had a word with one of the organisers and went to the range to re-calibrate our sadly abused Browning rifle. Luckily, there was no actual damage, and after some re-adjustment it once more fired straight and true. We had brought the other rifle, but it's always nice to have something to fall back on. I found Florence in the waiting area, but Jocelyn and Nigel were nowhere to be seen. I looked at the score board. Florence was the first to shoot, so they weren't needed right now, but a shepherd wants to keep all his sheep in the same place.
"Where's the rest?" I said.
"Jocelyn is teaching Nigel that Voluntas spell," said Florence.
"It's not an actual magic spell, you know?"
"Don't knock it, it worked. And now Nigel can do it as well."
"And he will teach others in his turn," I said. "There will be a mighty wave of calm over Algernon University."
Florence looked at me, with a little sneer on her face.
"Either that or they're hiding somewhere eating each other's faces."
I raised my eyebrows. It is not my place to stand in the way of love, Winston, but distractions of that sort are not to be encouraged. We have a tournament to win.
"I think he's got the hots for her something rotten. Really. Jocelyn was in hospital for a night, after someone tried to stab Miss Tennant in her sleep and she shot the attacker. Nige came running into our dorm, and someone thought it'd be funny to tell him she'd been in a fight with an assasin. Never seen a boy run that fast since the Dressing Room Incident. Jocelyn says he nearly threw himself into her arms. Which is a much better story than Nige just standing there and mumbling."
Well, Winston, that at least partially explained why Miss Vale had been so eager to join the team that she would go practicing late at night. I could only hope that it would motivate them as much to win. Florence and I went to see the first couple of rounds, paying special attention to the Eton team. Two boys, one girl. They were wearing sports gear in their university's colours, with their names and numbers in gold letters on the back. They were confident to the point of arrogance, and won their round with ease, with their lowest score being a single unlucky eight. It would take our best to beat them fairly.
Except, after what Mrs. Awdry had done to our rifle, I had no intention whatsoever of beating them fairly. You may suspect me of planning to throw a gremlin at their equipment, Winston. But none of it! I will not stoop that low. I will stoop even lower, and throw a gremlin at their minds.
With every lens in the place aimed at the target, mine went from boy to girl to boy, studying their behaviour. The boy on the range now was named Adam. By the way he carried himself, he clearly thought himself the team leader. The girl's name was Beatrice. She had clearly had to fight hard for her place on the team, and not just by shooting straight and true. The other boy was Christopher, and he was the calm one who could be relied on to bring in the points. Before he lay down on the mat to shoot, I saw him kiss the cross on a chain round his neck. Going by the scores up to now, Christopher was the best shot, Beatrice the least. I sat back and thought. There was still some time for battle plans, and my team would need to win their next round, or they would not meet at all.
Jocelyn came to join us with Nigel in tow. Florence raised her hand.
"Voluntas," she said.
"Voluntas, Sister," said Jocelyn.
They both looked at Nigel, who closed his eyes solemnly and nodded.
"Voluntas," said Nigel.
They all looked at me. What could I do? I folded my hands, and repeated the word. Voluntas, a word I'd just picked at random, had now officially become the team mantra. Isn't it strange how much such small things can do for team morale? I've been in plenty of military groups, and they all have these small phrases. They are trotted out when the rain is pouring down on a long march. Before joining battle. At least our mantra was not as rude as some others I've heard.
Our semi-final round was against a team sailed in from Prussia. They did not wear the traditional Pickelhaube, but they did honour their tradition of being damn good shots with a rifle, as our fathers and fathers' fathers have learnt to their loss. Their names were Gustav, Walther and Franz, and they were the very picture of politeness and efficiency. Of course, they were using Mausers. No true Prussian would use any of that foreign rubbish. Miss Tennant uses the same brand of rifle, which I say is damn unpatriotic of her.
They won the toss, and elected to shoot first. Gustav lay down, aimed, and pulled off a splendid fifty points in great style. Next was our own Florence, who took more time, but also landed a perfect score. Given the high standards, Winston, I would not be surprised if next year's competitions would be one thousand meters rather than eight hundred. Have to keep these young folk on their toes. Next was Walther. He broke rank by not getting a perfect score, but still managed an impressive forty seven. Nigel was next. He made himself one with the weapon, one with the target, slowed down his heartbeat, and scored an astounding forty eight points for the team. He was replaced by Franz, who also scored a perfect round, leaving Jocelyn to score at least forty six. She walked out to the mat, and lay down. Just what inspired her, I have no idea, but it worked. In scarcely more than a minute, she scored a perfect round. She came walking back to us, rifle on her shoulder. She raised a hand to us.
"Voluntas," she said.
We all repeated the word, and went to the bar to celebrate with a well-earned cup of tea. We were in the finals!
I turned to my team.
"Well done, people," I said. With the round over, it was time for the real battle. "Is anyone up for a little bit of theatre?"
We found the Eton team sitting at a table in the lounge, by the large window overlooking the range. Studied nonchalant expressions were on their faces as Nigel and I led Jocelyn to the space next to them, each holding her by an arm. Nigel pulled back a chair for her, and Jocelyn felt for the table with one hand as Nigel pushed the chair into the back of her knees and she sat down, back to the window. She had ruffled her hair a bit, and stared straight ahead of her. Nigel sat down next to her. The Eton team gave us a few strange looks. Nigel glared at them, then turned his back on them, concentrating on Jocelyn. She blindly felt for him, grabbed his wrist and pulled it towards her mouth. Nigel pulled it back.
"No," he said, sternly.
"I hunger," said Jocelyn.
"Not where people can see," said Nigel.
"I could see, once," said Jocelyn. She bowed her head, strands of hair falling in front of her face. "So... thirsty."
"I will get you some water," I said, made to stand op.
"No water! I don't drink..."
At that moment, the next quarter finalists were announced. Jocelyn jerked up straight. The first shot fell.
"Eight," said Jocelyn.
"Eight," said the announcer.
Another shot.
"Nine," said Jocelyn, staring straight ahead of her as the Eton team looked on with their mouths hanging open.
"Nine," said the announcer.
"Ten," said Jocelyn, wincing. "Ten! Please!"
"Ten."
The Eton team gave us strange looks as Jocelyn called out every single score correctly, a moment before the announcer did. Her hands were on the table, clawing at the smooth surface. Her voice cracked as the last shot of the round fell.
"Seven," she whispered.
"And that's a seven, for a total of one hundred and thirty two. Cambridge to continue to the semi-finals, well done!"
Jocelyn bent her head down, onto the table.
"Miss the Sun," she whispered. "I miss the Sun so much."
I put my hand on Nigel's shoulder and gave him a look. I could see his lips tremble. Then, he gave a small nod. He took Jocelyn by the hand and led her away. A few moments later, Florence joined me.
"Where's Jocelyn?"
"Nigel is helping her," I said, my voice dripping with hidden meaning.
Florence crossed herself, turning pale.
"Don't do that," I said, sternly. On the next table, the Eton team were carefully not looking in our direction. We sat quietly, listening to the rounds of the other quarter finalists. Almost none of them passed our own score, but that was no reason to get complacent. After a while, Nigel rejoined us, walking unsteadily, sporting a very visible bandage on his left wrist.
"Get him some orange juice, Florence," I said. "And a few biscuits."
"Yes, Sir," said Florence, and walked to the bar.
I turned to Nigel. "How is she?"
"Resting, Sir."
"Good. Your dedication will be rewarded."
"Thank you, Sir," said Nigel.
Florence waved me over to the bar, and I left Nigel alone for a while. As I looked back, I could see Christopher from the Eton team bend over to Nigel, presumably asking him if he was all right. Nigel scowled and told him to mind his own business. Florence put his drink in front of him, and Nigel gulped it down, ate the biscuits. Florence put a gentle hand on his shoulder.
At that moment, Jocelyn came walking into the room. She had brushed her hair till it shone, put on a fresh shirt that wasn't wrinkled. As a trained observer, I even noticed a hint of lip gloss. She swept up to our table with several young men watching her, sat down next to Nigel, and turned to Beatrice at the next table.
"Are you up yet, my darling?"
"Um..." Beatrice swallowed. "Round after the next, I think."
"Wonderful," purred Jocelyn. "Good luck."
She gave Beatrice a brilliant smile, and I could see the tiniest dot of red on one of her teeth. So could Beatrice. She stared, then got up.
"I think we'd better go and prepare."
With an almost military flair, the Eton team got up and left. Nigel, Florence, and Jocelyn glanced at each other, clearly trying not to laugh. I tapped the table.
"Well, that went rather swimmingly, I'd say. Now all we need to do is keep our scores in the high forties, and we may yet bring home the trophy. Finals start at four. I suggest you go and prepare."
"Voluntas," said Nigel.
There was still an hour or so to go, and I decided to go back to the hotel to see if there were any messages from Quentin or you. As I walked to the door, I could hear the voice of Mrs. Emily Awdry.
"For crying out loud! No! I am not filing a complaint that one of the contestants may be a vampire!"
"But she was blind!" Christopher's voice sounded a few tones higher than normal. "And she was sitting with her back to the range! How could she know what every score could be, even before the announcer?"
Well, one way she might have done it, was for her friend Florence to sit a few tables away with a spotting scope, signalling the scores to Jocelyn by holding up her fingers. If Jocelyn weren't a blood-sucking vampire with a talent for extra-sensory perception, that would definitely be one way to do it.
I'm afraid I indulged myself in an evil little chuckle, Winston. First sign of madness, I know. Time for a cup of tea, and then we'll see if I can calm the children down enough to win their finals.
Yours,
Dr. Godfrey "Nosferatu" Pike.
Dear Winston,
Well, that was a tournament well worth its report in the Algernon Clarion, Winston. Young Nigel is writing up the notes as we speak. Did we win? Did we lose? Did Eton finally taste the defeat it so richly deserved? Read on.
The Eton team's semifinal round was against a team from Norwich. I was amused to see that while they won easily, their rows of bullseyes and nines were marred by the occasional eight and even one seven. The prospect of exsanguination must be weighing on their minds. They returned to the canteen. The only table available was next to ours, so they sat down with aplomb. Can't show fear in the face of the enemy. Nigel gave them one single look, then turned to Jocelyn. Jocelyn, frankly, was playing her role as a femme fatale with a worrying ease, smiling at Nigel, whispering quietly at him. Florence, the least threatening of us, turned to Beatrice of the Eton team.
"Well done," she said. "It seems we'll be meeting in the finals."
"Best of luck," said Beatrice. "You'll need it."
"Slight advantage to us," said Adam. "But I'm sure you won't mind."
"Advantage?" said Florence.
"Two boys, one girl against two girls, one boy."
Jocelyn looked over her shoulder once, then turned back to Nigel.
"Why," said Florence, ice on her voice, "would that be an advantage?"
"Well, I am the best of the boys, Bea is the best of the girls, and the third is determined at random from the best ten overall. Luckily, we got Christopher."
"I am here because I scored better than all the boys except him." She pointed at Nigel, "And better than all the girls except Carrie. If she hadn't broken her wrist, this might have been an all-girls team."
Adam looked at Nigel, who was leaning his head on his arm, white bandage clearly visible under the sleeve of his jacket. Florence glared at Adam.
"There is no need to feel sorry for either me or Jocelyn. We can hold our own against any of you, boy or girl."
"If you say so," said Adam. An arrogant little smile was on his lips, and I could see Florence boiling.
Anger is not your friend if you are a sniper, Winston. I am not at the level of competence where I have to wait for the pause between heartbeats to pull the trigger, but my mind and Florence's have to be at rest. You cannot allow yourself to think of anything but the rifle and the target. For civilians, being able to attain that tranquility of mind is the greatest reward for all your practice. All that Adam did to destroy Florence's tranquility, was to be a pompous ass, which came naturally to him.
I tapped my finger on the table in front of her. She looked round to me.
"Florence? You are the first to shoot next round. Let's prepare."
I took Florence to one of the private dressing rooms, and sat her down on the floor. Sadly, tranquility was not yet at its optimum.
"What an arse!"
"I agree," I said. "Feel that anger, and let it slip away."
"He thinks he can beat me, just because I'm a girl!"
"I'm sure he can count as well as any of us, Florence. He was trying to get under your skin."
"At Algernon U, the girls are better than the boys!"
"Florence." I took her hand, till she looked into my eyes. "This is not helping. We can beat them, but unless you can let go of this anger, it will not happen. The Algernon Rifle Club is better than this team Eton has fielded. But it is not because they have more boys or we have more girls. We are better because we do not make the distinction. You are here because of your score in the trials. If Bertram had beaten your score, he would be here today. But he didn't, and here you are, and you have given us no cause to regret our choice."
"I will beat him. Trust me."
"I do trust you. But you will not beat him. As you should know by now, Florence, marksmanship is a mind game. Every fraction of your concentration must be on your rifle, your target. Beating some pompous arse should not even be in your world. You must detach yourself from all distraction. Only then will you be able to score your best."
"I will."
"Yes you will. Now close your eyes. Breathe in. Hold. Look through your scope. See the target. Become the target. Breathe out, slowly."
The time of the finals arrived. Florence and I rejoined Jocelyn and Nigel.
"They won the toss," he said. "They are going to shoot first."
"Good," I said. "Play time is over. No more propaganda. No more nonsense. From this moment, all that matters is the bullseye."
Eton's first contestant was Adam. He scored two nines and three bullseyes. I handed Florence her rifle as Adam walked by us.
"Distance is eight hundred yards," he said. "Don't forget to set your scope."
Florence looked at him, then got up and stepped out. Her first shot was a nine. Her second was a bullseye. Her third was another bullseye. Her fourth was a nine. I could see her look away for a moment, aim again. It took her longer than usual. The gun went off.
"Nine, for a total of forty-seven! Beatrice Hammond of Eton to shoot next."
Florence walked back to us, determined and steadfast, aware of all the eyes on her. She closed her eyes and handed the rifle over to Jocelyn.
"Sorry," she said. "I... wandered."
"You did well, my dear," I said. "Only one point behind."
"I wanted to beat him," said Florence.
"We all do Flo," said Nigel. "We're not finished yet."
As we watched, Beatrice scored forty-seven.
"Nice," said Jocelyn. She got up.
"Remember, Jocelyn," I said. "Think of the target, not of what our opponents say."
Jocelyn looked down the barrel of the rifle, flicked off a speck of dust. "They're idiots," she said. "Who cares what they say?"
Nigel raised a hand. "Voluntas."
"Voluntas," said Jocelyn.
She walked out to the range, gave the mat a little kick to straighten it out, lay down. We all held our breath. The first shot fell.
"Ten!"
I watched in total shock and awe as Jocelyn put in a perfect score as though it came naturally to her. She came walking back to us with a little smile on her face, and handed her rifle to Nigel.
"There," she said. "Two ahead again. Don't miss."
She settled back on her seat. On the bench next to us, Adam looked at her. She gave him a little smile, licked her lips. Adam looked away.
Christopher of the Eton team walked up, kissed the cross round his neck, lay down on the mat, aimed, fired.
"Ten!" The announcer sounded enthusiastic. Christoper fired again, for another bulseye. We all looked at each other.
"If he gets a perfect round too, i'll be very cross," said Jocelyn.
Out on the range, Christopher scored another ten.
"Lucky," said Nigel.
There was a longer pause as Christopher aimed, looked away, aimed again, fired.
"Ten!"
The audience erupted in a rush of excited whispers.
"Quiet please, quiet please!"
For the briefest moment, I saw Christopher's face, rigid, tense. This would be the last shot of the tournament for the Eton team. His lips moved in a silent prayer, and I could feel the weight pressing down on his shoulders. He aimed for too long, then fired.
"Nine! A total of forty nine, a grand total of one hundred and forty four! With forty-eight points required to win, Nigel Arterton of Algernon University to shoot next."
Nigel stood up straight, rifle in the crook of his arm. He looked at each of our faces.
"Voluntas," said Jocelyn.
Nigel smiled. "Voluntas."
We all kept our fingers crossed as Nigel walked out for the final round of this tournament. We have come far, Winston. Miss Tennant has every right to be proud of her snipers. The official handed Nigel his bullets. He loaded his rifle, and lay down on the mat. He aimed. Fired.
"Ten!"
"Yes!" said Florence, grinning at Jocelyn.
Nigel fired again. "Ten!"
"Good," said Jocelyn. "Three more."
Just as Nigel was getting ready to fire again, there was a crash from the table next to us. I looked round to see that Adam of Team Eton had dropped his rifle on the floor. Nigel looked round, disturbed.
"Sorry," said Adam, one of the most insincere apologies I have ever seen. Most unsportsmanlike, Winston. This was simply not on.
Nigel aimed, fired again.
"Eight!"
Florence uttered a word under her breath that polite young ladies are not to utter. Jocelyn sneered, got up, walked over to the other bench. She bent over Adam. I could not hear what she said, but I could see Adam turn pale and shrink at least five inches in size. Jocelyn came walking back, a little smirk on her face.
"What'd you say?" whispered Florence.
"I said Gruzh maga il nodruz burzum dr'ma."
"Good Lord," said Florence. "What does that mean?"
"Don't know," said Jocelyn. "I made it up."
"Quiet please, quiet please! Mr. Arterton, in your own time."
We all looked out to where Nigel was taking aim again. He fired.
"Ten!"
"Boy's back," said Jocelyn, satisfied.
"One more shot," said Florence. "Come on, Nige!"
We all watched as Nigel took one or two deep breaths, then a final one.
He aimed.
He fired.
"And a final bullseye for Mr. Nigel Arterton, for a total of forty eight, a grand total of one hundred and forty five, and the tournament!"
The crowd erupted in cheers as Nigel jumped to his feet, raised his rifle in the air. We all rushed out to him, Jocelyn first. She wrapped her arms round Nigel and kissed him, to a roaring applause.
After about half a minute, with no sign of stopping, I looked at Florence. She looked back at me and shrugged. She walked up to Nigel and Jocelyn and poked her.
"Oi! I scored almost as much as Nigel did!"
Jocelyn turned round to Florence, arms wide, stepped towards her. Florence put her hand on Jocelyn's chest and pushed her away.
"Yes, no thank you. Just stop making a spectacle of yourselves, you..."
Nigel put his arm, still holding the rifle, round Florence. I tried to escape, but couldn't.
We've done it, Winston!
Was there ever any doubt?
Voluntas!
Yours,
Godfrey.
Dear Winston,
Just a quick note to tell you we are about to return to Ipswich. We turned in early, at least I did, and so did young Nigel. I did not hear him get up again after a while, and I definitely did not hear Miss Vale giggling at the door as he joined her. I did not hear that because I am a very sound sleeper. He was sound asleep in bed the next morning. Very sound.
I'll just have a quick final look if there are any messages for me at the reception desk, and then it is off to Ipswich to see if the place is still standing without me for three days.
Yours as ever,
Godfrey.
P.S: Damn it, Winston! I honestly can't leave them alone for even a few days! I just heard the news that of all people Andrew Parsons has been arrested by the police. Time to put out another fire.
G.P.
Alexandra Tennant: Faltering steps
Home port - Unsound minds, unsound bodies - First, do no harm - Undying metal - Aggravated bodily harm
Freedom of the Press obstructed at Algernon University?
Rina Prescott reporting.
In a civilised society such as the one we live in, it is of the utmost importance that the Press, even a student newspaper such as the Algernon Clarion, be able to gather and report on news without interference from the Authorities. The People have a right to be properly informed of events occurring in their immediate surroundings and the rest of the world. It is one of the pillars upon which Democracy rests.
The treatment of your reporters at the hands of the Police is therefore nothing less than an outrage. Are we, the journalists, to stand idly by why an esteemed member of our University staff is led away in handcuffs? Are we not to investigate this matter, so that our body of students can learn the truth on these matters?
Yet, not only were our enquiries brusquely opposed by the people whose task it is to uphold the Law, but we were expressly forbidden from reporting on any of these troubling events.
I assure you, Readers, that the last word on this matter has not been spoken. We will find out the truth, and you will be informed.
When I woke up, I could see the river Orwell from my porthole. Brenda was asleep in the bed above me. I strained, but the tower of Algernon University would be dead ahead, and I could not see it. Last night's medicine had not yet worn off, and I could turn round in bed. Father would be at the helm. I could recognise the way in which he made Lady I descend, heavy on the aillerons, slowly emptying the four main envelopes all at the same time with a hiss of gas in the pipes far above us. We were home. Soon, I would see my friends again. Margaret. The girls from the Rifle Club. Dr. Pike. Dr. Wadcroft. I gritted my teeth and moved from my bed to the mirror. I looked at myself. I had come back to Lady I bruised and battered from the beatings I had received. Most of the swelling had gone down, but there were still dark marks on my face, my shoulders, my arms. Cuts had healed, but were still visible.
I sighed. I have never been one for making up my face. A bit of rouge and lip balm was all I usually bothered with, and then only on special occasions. Today, I would see my friends again. I reached for a pot and started to cover up the worst signs. I put on layer after layer of rice powder, but the dark marks still showed. I sighed, looked round to see Brenda had woken up and was watching me from her bed. I smiled at her.
"How do I look?"
Brenda pushed her legs out, leapt down.
"You look like crap. You look like you got beaten up badly and you're ashamed of it."
I looked back at myself in the mirror. "I don't want to scare my friends."
"You're going to scare them more by trying to hide it. Wash that stuff off your face. Give 'em hell. Who's on breakfast?"
"Carl."
"I better go give him a hand then. He does things to eggs."
Brenda pulled on a pair of trousers and a shirt, then walked out to prevent Carl from ruining the eggs. I sat still for a while, then picked up a flannel and wiped my face, revealing it in all its horror. It would heal. The marks of many a sparring match with my brother had disappeared mostly without leaving a mark.
It took me rather longer to dress myself. I could not wear my khahi trousers with the bandages on my knees, so I put on a long skirt. I tried to stand up, one hand on my bed, pretend that nothing had happened. Like every morning since my ordeal, I failed. I accepted my defeat by pouring myself a glass of water. I put in ten drops of medicine, no more. I drank the bitter water and felt the numbness spread through my body. I would have to learn to live without the morphia eventually, accept the pain, but not today.
In the mess hall, Fatin was feeding Raage. Agent Wainwright, Brenda and Carl were having breakfast. Father was at the helm, steering us towards Ipswich. It felt good to be among ourselves again. The noisy scientists had been dropped off in Paris, and much to my relief, Riley had disembarked at Paris at well. I had mostly slept through those activities.
I sat down on the bench, and Carl helped me move my legs over. Voices were quiet, careful not to startle me.
"We'll be at Algernon soon," said Carl. "We'll have a proper doctor look at your... look at you. You'll be up and about in no time."
"Good," I said.
Everybody was nice to me. Treated me like a frozen flower that would shatter at the slightest touch. With ten drops of morphia inside me, they needn't worry. The pain in my knees was pushed away by a golden haze, and my mind was floating on that same cloud of oblivion. The tea, toasted bread, eggs, sausages, beans, and bacon tasted of nothing. They filled my stomach, no more. I felt removed from the world, and for the first half hour after taking the medicine, I was content to be removed. After that, the fear was the first thing to return.
Through the open door to Carl's and Fatin's cabin, I could see the sunlight change as Father brought Lady I about. The engines slowed down. There was the hiss of gas in the pipes above us.
Fatin looked up. "We are home," she said.
I returned to my cabin, where Brenda re-tied the supporting bandages round my legs. She worked quietly, quickly, without looking me in the eye. She tied off the last end of the bandage, then pulled down my skirt.
"Thank you," I said.
She only nodded, got up and turned round to leave. At the last moment, she turned round, as if to say something, but then she looked away again.
"Your father is talking to the doctors," she said instead. "I'll see about getting you there. And then we'll see." She walked out of the door.
See what? Whether I would ever walk again? Brenda had told me that I'd be up again in but a few short weeks, but I didn't believe it anymore. I picked up Father's crutch and stumbled to the dining table. Fatin was cleaning and changing Raage, singing to him. When she was finished, she put him in my lap, smiled at me, and went to the kitchen to wash up. Normally, I would have followed her, but what was normal now?
Agent Wainwright came walking in, waited by the door. His duffel bag was on his shoulder. I looked at him, and he gave me a nod. "I... I am going back to my office to write my report. I wish you well, Miss Alexandra. I hope your, um, problems will be sorted out soon."
"Thank you," I said.
He opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind, gave me a quick smile and a wave instead, and went amidships, to the gangplank.
I looked at the small child on my arm, gently rocking him. He looked back up at me, reached out for my hair. I picked up a few locks and tickled his nose. He giggled, and despite everything, I had to smile. I bent down over him. He looked at me, dark brown eyes in a brown face, an earnest look. Then he reached out with his little hand and gently touched a dark bruise on my cheek.
"Ma," said Raage.
I slowly breathed in, put my hand on Raage's, rubbed my cheek against his fingers. Raage had just spoken his first word to me.
"Yes," I said. "But it'll get better."
Fatin came in, wiping her hands on a towel. I looked up, held up Raage in my arms, but she waved a hand.
"You hold him. He is a happy boy, full of milk." She touched my shoulder. "You need a little happy."
"Happiness," I said.
"Yes?"
"Happiness. The, um, 'juice' that makes you happy."
"Happi-ness. Good. You need a little happiness."
"He just said a word."
Fatin smiled. "What word?"
"Ma."
Fatin sat down next to me, her arm round my shoulders. "In the Ajuru, that means 'You will be well.' He is right."
"What a clever little boy," I said, leaning into Fatin.
Brenda came walking in. "Hey. I got you a present. Come on outside and look."
I gave Raage back to Fatin and slowly got to my feet, Father's remaining crutch on one end, Brenda on the other. We made our way down the stairs into the cargo hold, then up again towards the bridge and down the gangplank. At the bottom, waiting for me, was a wheelchair.
"I got it from the hospital. Threw out the old geezer in it, 'cause you need it more."
"Brenda..." I looked at her.
"He's all right. He landed somewhere soft. Go on, try it. See how fast we can go."
There is something about Brenda's direct crass trans-Atlantic sense of humour. At least I think she was joking. I never found out. I stumbled down the gangplank and sat down. Brenda got behind and pushed me towards the bell tower. The bell tolled for the end of class. Before we arrived at the main building, someone came out, walking with large strides towards us. It can be a bit awkward to embrace someone when you are sitting in a wheelchair, but that did not stop Prof. Dr. Margaret Enderby.
"Alexandra my dear, I'm so glad you are back!" She looked into my eyes, no doubt guessing more than anyone else about my state of mind and body. "I could hardly believe it when I saw that airship of yours on the lawn. We must get you some tea. Would you like some tea? You always feel better after a nice hot cup."
"You got a doctor at nine," said Brenda.
"Oh!" Margaret looked at Brenda and held out her hand. "I'm sorry. Margaret Enderby, how do you do."
Brenda took Margaret's hand. "Brenda Lee. I'm Push Chair Woman."
"Ah. Must be lovely for you Yanks to find something useful to do. Shall we take young Miss Tennant to the cafeteria?"
"Lead on, MacDuff," said Brenda.
"It's lay on."
"Bill Shakespeare is dead, he won't mind."
Margaret grinned. "I've got a bunch of English profs I want you to meet. The trough is that way."
Margaret is a person of influence and weight at Algernon University, so she had no trouble getting a pot of tea from the cafeteria where students, lesser Faculty and other mortals could only get small cups. She looked at the clock.
"I'm afraid I can only spare you fifteen minutes or so. Got a second year Physics class coming up and if I'm not there on the bloody dot, the little sods bugger off for fags behind the stables. Isaac Newton would weep if he knew."
"So how have you been, Margaret?"
"Interesting times, very interesting. Been held at knifepoint by a bunch of heathens wanting to get at Hammond's blitherings. We have two of them on ice. Any more coming?"
"The Khartoum air fleet dropped a mountain on their heads," said Brenda. "I'm expecting that to cease about now."
"I'll believe Slate is dead when I see a corpse," I said. I closed my eyes for a moment, inhaling my tea. "Not that I'll get any chance to."
"Not so glum, Tennant. As soon as he heard what had happened, Dr. Bernhardt wrote to a friend of his who did nothing in his whole career except stare at ladies' legs. Indian bloke named Singh. You're going to be fine."
"It's easier to tear down a tree than to grow one," I said. I looked into Margaret's eyes. "Are you all right?"
"I was married to a crypto-zoologist for seventeen years," said Margaret. "Once you've seen a chupacabra barrel down on you, everything else is tame by comparison." She put her hand on my arm. "Really love. You just think of getting better. Don't worry about me. If there's things you don't want to tell Dr. Schmidt, my door is always open to you."
"Dr. Schmidt?" Dr. Schmidt was the University's expert on diseases of the mind. "I have no desire to spend the next twenty years in a cell with pillows on the walls, and I already have all the morphia I need."
"Exactly what I thought," said Margaret. "I didn't want to go and see him. Jocelyn didn't want to go and see him after someone tried to murder you in your bed. You may not know, but your father put his foot down and kept you out of his clutches. But Dr. Schmidt's subject is the effect of fear and suffering upon the Human mind."
"I have sore knees," I said. "There's nothing wrong with my head. I've boxed against Carl for crying out loud!"
Margaret shrugged. "If I know Dr. Bernhardt, you won't get out of the infirmary this whole afternoon. Have Miss Lee here push you to my door, and we can teach her all about gin and tonic."
"That'd be great," said Brenda. "You know what? I'll bring some eggs so I can teach you how to suck 'em."
Margaret laughed, getting up. "This will be a trans Atlantic liver destruction derby. Well, I think I still have students, so I'll see you tonight. Glad you're back Alexandra, lovely to meet you, Miss Lee."
We watched her walk out of the cafeteria. Brenda turned back to me.
"I like her."
"She's going to drink you under the table," I said.
"In her dreams." Brenda looked over my shoulder at the clock. "We have about half an hour till your doc's appointment. What do you want to do?"
I took a deep breath.
"I want to go for a run."
Brenda put her hand on my arm.
"Rise and walk, Sister."
I only gave her a weary look.
"Well, seems like I'm not Jesus after all."
"Maybe you just need to try harder."
"Yeah, I reckon. I'm in Limey Country. More tea?"
"Lovely."
Brenda wheeled me into Dr. Bernhardt's office, helped me onto an examination bed, then made herself scarce. Dr. Bernhardt, our most senior physician, sat down next to me. He pointed at my face.
"I see you have been using cold compresses for that. Good."
"Fight against a brother twice your weight, and you soon learn that."
The Doctor gave me a quick look, but decided against dwelling on the subject of fighting.
"Dr. Singh will be here momentarily. In the mean time, why don't I have a look at those poor legs of yours? Could you raise your skirt, please?"
I did. Dr. Bernhardt looked at them with a painful look on his face, then quietly started to undo the bandage that covered the gunshot wound in my thigh. The bullet had gone through the flesh, but hit no bones. Carl had bound the wound, and we had changed the bandage only once on board Lady I. The Doctor nodded, apparently satisfied. He walked to his cabinet, pulled out a bottle and a cloth, and cleaned and re-bandaged my thigh. Just as he tied off the bandage, there was a knock on the door. He let in a brown-skinned man, about his own age, black hair turning grey at the temples. He wore gold-rimmed glasses, and was holding a heavy Manila envelope.
"Good morning Miss Tennant," he said. "I am Dr. Praveen Singh. Has Antoon told you why I am here?"
I was grateful that he did not ask me how I was feeling. This was a subject most people shied away from.
"You are an expert on ladies' legs," I said.
Dr. Singh's eyes twinkled. "My fame preceeds me, though my interest is purely medical in nature, I assure you." He pulled a few sheets of paper from his envelope and put them on a clipboard. I looked, and saw a drawing of the torture device. I shivered, looked away.
Dr. Singh seemed not to notice, though he put another sheet of paper on top. He turned to my legs and removed the bandages Brenda had put on there that morning. Under the bright light of the surgery, the skin was every colour imaginable, except healthy. The welts of the rope were still clearly visible. I tried to speak, but found my mouth was dry. I coughed.
"Has the... gangrene advanced?"
"Gangrene? Goodness me, no. This is not gangrene. It would be dry gangrene, and that only sets in after a week or so. This is simply discoloration of the skin due to lack of circulation. Why do you think this is gangrene?"
"The..." I could not keep my voice from shaking. "The woman who tortured me said so." I closed my eyes. It was the first time I had clearly stated what had happened to me. I'm afraid I sobbed.
Dr. Singh took my hand. "You have my sincerest sympathy, Miss Tennant. Torture. Arguably the most misguided application of human ingenuety. But let me tell you. I too am an ingenious man. All of my knowledge is at your disposal. If there is but a single possibility, you will walk again. You have my word on it."
With that, he put my bandages to the side and lifted my left leg. The morphia I had taken had not completely worn off yet, but the pain was beyond its reach. I gasped. Dr. Singh gave me a quick look, then ran his fingers from my calf to my thigh, squeezing in places. He gave me a few moments to catch my breath, then did the same to my other leg. Sweat pearled on my forehead. How had I endured several days of this pain? And why could I not do so again, even aided by a large dose of morphia?
Dr. Singh gently put down my right leg, then picked up an anatomical drawing of a pair of legs, on which he started hastily to scrawl notes, connected by lines to various parts of my knees.
He took the time to explain to me what exactly was broken, what ligaments were torn. I'm afraid I don't remember his words, only the forcedly optimistic way in which he said them.
"Miss Tennant, I stand by my words. I will do what I can. I will not accept defeat as long as courses of action are open to me. This is now a matter of honour." He turned to Dr. Bernhardt. "Would you please join me? I need to discuss this with you."
As soon as Dr. Bernhardt and Dr. Singh had left, the door opened and Father walked in. He pulled up a chair and sat down next to me. He looked at me with his one remaining eye, and made a bit of a show of adjusting his metal leg, as if to remind me that all was not hopeless.
"What did they say, Alexandra?"
"My legs are buggered," I said.
Father raised an eyebrow. "Language, my dear. Buggered in what way?"
"Ligaments torn, cartilage cracked, likely to deteriorate more." I gave my father a wry smile. "But at least I don't have gangrene."
"Thank God for small mercies," said Father. "Do they have plans of any sort?"
"Plans are being drawn as we speak. We can only hope and pray."
"That couldn't hurt." Father gave me a grim smile. "There is an ancient North American saying. Pray to the Spirits, but row away from the rocks."
"I can do that," I said. "I still have my upper body strength. What do you have in mind?"
Father sat back in his chair, and drew a deep breath. "For the moment, let us see what the medicine men can do for you. I asked around. Dr. Singh seems to be one of the best that Medicine has to offer."
"Maybe in a few years, I can stumble," I said. "Or roll around in one of these chairs."
"Alexandra," said Father, in the quiet voice that I dreaded as a young girl. "Look at me. Five years ago, I could have walked from one coast of South America to the other. Fate dealt me a cruel blow, and I lost my right leg, most of the use of my left arm, and one eye. Even with the willpower of a god, I could not do now what would have been easy to me but a few short years ago. Still, I am now the captain of one of the fastest craft in the sky. I can go to any place on this Earth, as long as I have coal. I have made friends and acquaintances in these academic circles, and I intend to serve them by bringing together scientists from all over the world, and bring them to the inaccessible places where they must go to gather their knowledge. Lady I will do what no other vessel is willing and able to do, to our profit and that of Humanity itself. This is the future I see for our family. This is who I intend to become." Father's eyes... eye, wandered over my poor abused body, then settled on my eyes. "What you must ask yourself, is who are you?"
I opened my mouth to say something, but Father waved me away.
"I said ask, not instantly answer. Who knows? The good Doctors may restore your legs to satisfactory function yet. But if they don't, well, life continues, and you must re-invent yourself. I promise you, there will always be a place for you on board Lady I." Father got to his feet, patted my shoulder. "Do not disappoint yourself, Alexandra. You are my daughter, and you are formidable." He looked at the sky through the clear part of the frosted glass window, then back at me. "And that is very well, because I will need you. These troubles are not over yet. But first, recover. With Slate's fortress destroyed, we have some time. Well, I have an appointment with Chancellor Munroe."
I watched him walk out of the door, metal leg and all. I ran my fingers over my legs, closed my hands on my knees. The pain was becoming more familiar. Would I ever be able to ignore it, and walk again? I looked round at the wheeled chair Brenda had acquired for me. It was the kind with the big wheels that enabled the person in it to move about by turning them. Was that to be my future? To look at the world from waist height?
The door opened, and Brenda came walking in on her strong, perfectly functional legs.
"Howdy Partner," she said, laying on a thick trans-atlantic accent that I hadn't noticed her ever having before. "What'd the doc say? They gonn' saw ya?"
I took a deep breath. "I'll be getting a pair of legs made from the finest timber."
Brenda raised her eyebrows. "Really?"
"They haven't come back yet. They are taking their time. Supposedly, Dr. Singh is an expert leg man."
"Dirty bastard," said Brenda. She sat down in the wheelchair, and waited with me.
Dr Singh and Dr. Bernhardt returned half an hour later, sending Brenda out of the room. I could see they were trying to stay optimistic as to my future, but that future would not, it seemed, include running miles or climbing mountains. Dr. Singh took the time to explain to me the medical operations that would have to take place, which would leave my legs just about able to support me, but not much else. Dr. Bernhardt assured me that Algernon University would do what they could. I'm afraid I let the explanations and the soothing words wash over me. I saw my future. That future would be spent mostly sitting down. I had been damaged beyond the capability of even the best doctors to heal me, and there was nothing to be done about it. I vaguely remember Dr. Singh putting his hand on my shoulder, and reassuring me that if there were any way at all to restore me, he would find it. Dr. Bernhardt asked me what medicine I was taking, and looked horrified when I told him about the Laudanum. He walked away to get me something better, leaving me alone in the examination room to face my fate.
There was a crash at the door, and Brenda came rolling in in my wheelchair.
"You know, if you put your arms into it, this thing can go fast!"
"Good," I said, unable to work up quite the same enthusiasm.
"Are you done here?"
"Well, I need to wait for-"
"You hungry? Cause I am."
It was early for lunch, but it was coming up to elevenses. A cup of tea and maybe a piece of dry cake sounded preferable to waiting here, brooding.
"Famished," I said.
Margaret often had lunch in the cafeteria, but she was the exception rather than the rule. No other teacher would allow the disusting eating habits of the student corps to put them off their lunch. Margaret had once taken me to the teacher's lunch room, and afterwards none would deny me. Brenda pulled away a chair and wheeled me up to one of the tables.
"What do you want?"
"Tea with a slice of lemon cake." I reached for the bottle in my pocket. "And a glass of water."
"Some day, you're gonna have to get off that stuff, you know?"
"Yes."
Brenda walked off, to return a while later with a tray. Brenda ate with military efficiency. Food needed to be inside her. Even cheesecake. Did the girl not know that this was to be enjoyed? I ate slower, sitting very still to put off taking the mind-numbing medicine that would take away the pain and my thoughts.
"I am never going to run again," I said.
Brenda looked up at me for a moment, then said nothing and continued eating.
"You've never seen anyone recover from that place, have you?"
"No." There was a moment of heavy silence. "Poor bastards who got what you got were usually for the chops. Didn't get the time to get better. Gunther just bashed their heads in and dropped them down a hole."
I wanted to ask her why she had lied to me, but that was a stupid question. The truth was not what I had needed to hear. But now, it was.
"If I'm going to be in one of these chairs for life, then we'll need some changes to Lady I," I said. "Ramps into the cargo hold. Maybe a bridge."
"Uh huh."
"We'll need some kind of high chair at the helm. Can't let everyone else do all the helm duty. If we can't do that, maybe some kind of platform for a wheelchair. I'll have to move to one of the front cabins. Can't have people carrying me all the time."
"Yeah."
I seemed to have lost my audience. Brenda was looking over my shoulder with a strange half-smile on her face.
"Brenda?"
"Hm?"
"Are you all right?"
"Who..." She pointed behind me. "...is that?"
I looked, to see the massive form of Andrew Parsons, grandson of our founder, walking to one of the tables with a tray containing a large cup of tea and a piece of cake. He would have positioned both items on his tray in such a way that the centre of balance would be in the exact middle.
"That's Andrew Parsons," I said. "He's the best engineer England has to offer. He made Lady I's engines. That's why she's so fast."
"He's a machine!" said Brenda. She grinned at me. "I don't suppose you could, well, introduce me?"
"If you wheel me over there, there's nothing I can do to stop you."
We put our teacups and food on the tray in my lap, and made our way to Andrew Parsons' table. I asked him if he'd mind if we joined him, and he said he did not. Brenda put me off to the side a bit and sat down opposite Andrew. I pointed at her.
"Andrew Parsons? This is my friend Brenda Lee."
"How do you do," said Andrew.
"Pleased to meet you," said Brenda, holding out her hand.
Andrew shook it carefully, cut his piece of cake in half, then cut the halves, then the quarters. I am sure that if one had weighed the pieces, the scale would not have tipped even a fraction of an inch to either side.
"So," said Brenda. "What do you do here, Mister Parsons?"
Andrew considered a moment. "I am drinking my tea, and eating a piece of lemon drizzle cake."
Brenda stared at Andrew, no doubt trying to figure out whether he was joking. She was learning that there was an art to talking with Andrew. All my life, I had never met anyone with quite as literal a view on life.
"What Brenda means," I said, "is what you are working on at the moment."
"I have completed the restoration of the gyroscopic stabiliser for the airship Aeolus, and am now preparing and packing it for installation."
"Wow," said Brenda. "That sounds so complicated. Alexandra tells me you're the best engineer around."
Andrew did not interprete that as a question, and so said nothing. I watched Brenda with some amusement. It didn't seem like she often ventured out on the battlefield of the sexes, being more comfortable on actual battlefields, but she was by no means ill-equipped for the purpose. With her well-defined muscle, the dark pictures on her arms, and her acerbic wit, she was bound to attract the stronger of men. Sadly, though strong enough to bend steel girders in his hands, Andrew was not the usual kind of man. On the other hand, Brenda was nothing if not persistent.
"Brenda is helping me around," I said. "I've hurt my legs."
"I am sorry to hear that," said Andrew.
This was a taught phrase, a result of Miss Felicia Sunderland's coaching. The correct thing to say when someone tells you about their hurt. Left to himself, Andrew would simply have taken it as information, made a note of it, and left it at that.
"Thank you," I said. "Say Andrew, would you be able to free up some of your time? We may need some changes made to Lady I, so I can move around it. Maybe a platform for a wheelchair by the helm. Moving some of the controls closer to the wheel."
Andrew, due to his special character, was mostly left to his own devices. Chancellor Munroe knew that no matter what Andrew did, the results would be worthwhile. Our Lady's engines had been duly reported on by one of the scientific journals, complete with schematics drawn by Andrew himself, from memory. He frowned.
"Would it not be more efficient to repair your legs? That way, you can also use them outside Lady I."
I gave Andrew a sad smile. So sophisticated in one area, so ignorant in another.
"Oh Andrew," I said. "Could you make me a new pair of knees?"
Andrew stared at the wall for one or two seconds, completely drawn into himself. Then he looked back at me. He had a way of looking at someone's chest rather than into their eyes. For someone who didn't know him, it might be uncomfortable, but the simple reason was that Andrew didn't like looking into people's eyes.
"Yes," he said, simply.
"I was joking, Andrew."
His thick eyebrows knotted. "You do not wish to have your knees repaired?"
"I do," I said, "But the human body is the domain of physicians. You can't just swap out parts."
"I made a leg for Captain Philip Tennant," said Andrew.
"This is different," I said. "A knee is a complex part."
"It is a simple joint," said Andrew. "It bends to one hundred thirty degrees, extends to fifteen degrees, and has a a ten degree lateral rotation. I have made twelve such joints for the track supports of the Tracked Vehicle, Mark One."
Brenda leaned over to him, chin on her hand. "If you want a working example, I can show you mine."
"Brenda!"
She didn't even look at me.
"I'm sure Dr. Parsons' interest would be completely..." She grinned like a tiger. "Academical."
Andrew looked at Brenda. "I have two knees of my own, Miss Lee. It is not necessary for me to study yours."
"But there's so many things that are more fun to do with other people's bodies than your own..." Brenda was now positively purring.
Before I could say anything, a woman appeared by our table. From the look on her face, I could tell that she had been watching for a while. Miss Felicia Sunderland is a kind spirit, but nonetheless, she protects Andrew like a mother bear would protect her cubs. Her good morning reminded one that mornings can be bad as well.
"Miss Sunderland," I said. "How do you do?"
"How do you do, Miss Tennant. Miss..." she looked at Brenda.
"Lee. Brenda Lee. Charmed."
"Ah. We don't often get visitors from the Americas. Welcome. Oh, Andrew? What's the time?"
Andrew looked at the clock, then compared it to his pocket watch.
"Between eleven forty-four and eleven forty-six," he said. Without another word, he drank the last of his tea, stood up, picked up his tray, and walked off.
Miss Felicia sat down on his chair, giving Brenda a warm smile.
"Andrew is very much set in his ways. His tea break is precisely from eleven fifteen to eleven forty-five."
"Does he have a lady friend?" said Brenda.
"He does not," said Miss Felicia. "Why? Were you thinking of applying for the position?"
Brenda clutched her heart. "Never have I seen a finer figure of a man than him. I am lost. I must have him."
Miss Felicia gave a little smirk. "My mother warned me that this would happen one day. I told her that I would never have children." She looked up. "You win this one, Mother. Now I will have to buy a firearm after all."
"Don't go for the Prussian ones," said Brenda. "They're, what do you Limeys say, 'rubbish'? Go for a nice Colt revolver. Every girl needs one."
"Quite," said Miss Felicia, turning to me. "how have you been, Miss Tennant? I can't help noticing..."
The words were left hanging in the air. My knees started hurting again.
"I..." My mouth was dry, and my teacup was empty. "I will be fine."
Brenda got up, walked to the counter and fetched me a glass of water. Only now I noticed that she'd also taken my bottle of medicine. She pushed the glass towards me, and I drank. The soft cotton-wool feeling of the medicine spread through my body and cushioned my mind. If she wants to, Brenda can move quietly.
"I fell into the wrong hands," I said. "The doctors are finding a way to heal my legs."
"I'm sure they will," said Miss Felicia.
"You were flirting!"
Brenda was pushing me back to the doctor's office.
"Yep."
"You were flirting with Andrew!"
"What can I say? I like my men big and strong. Like they're made of steel. Heck, an actual steel man, that's what I want. But I'll have Andrew until I find one. Heads up, it's the doctors."
"Did you ask Andrew Parsons to make you a new pair of knees?" Dr. Bernhardt looked at me over the rims of his glasses.
"Um..."
"He was just here, asking me if I had your measurements, which I do not. He will be back shortly."
"It was a joke," I said. "I thought he understood that."
"Mr. Andrew Parsons is not compatible with jokes," said Dr. Bernhardt. "He actually thought that we would saw off your legs, and connect them back up with bits of metal!"
"Actually," said Dr. Singh, pushing up his glasses. "It has been done before, except it was a hip joint. An assistant stevedore was caught in a cable and his leg nearly pulled off. One of my friends fashioned a new femural head out of steel. The man was able to walk without a cane afterwards. There is a very interesting treatise on the subject, which I'll be happy to send you. But a hip joint is a fairly simple affair. A knee is more complex. The craftsmanship would have to be superb."
"We do have a superb craftsman in our Andrew," said Dr. Bernhardt. "You're not really thinking of doing it are you?"
Dr. Singh slowly turned his eyes to me. "Miss Tennant, I must be frank with you. The work on your knees would be long and hard. The muscle is only stretched, but some of the tendons are completely torn off. We would have to re-attach them first. At the same time, we would have to repair the bone damage. It could be years before you could walk a few steps, and I can give no guarantees that it would be worth the pain and effort." Dr. Singh took off his glasses, polished them, as if to give himself some time to think. "To remove the damaged parts, and replace them with steel, would be the quickest way to recovery."
"Very well," I said. "Then that is what we will do."
Dr. Bernhardt shook his head. "I will not accept any decision yet, Miss Alexandra. There are risks. First and foremost, an operation of this size must be done with you in the arms of Morpheus. We have become better, but it cannot be denied. A small but significant number of the people who are put under the Aether, never wake up again. Secondly, even my esteemed colleague will admit that this is no small task, even for an experienced surgeon. We may fail."
"Fail?" I said.
"Opening the Human body is no small matter, Miss Tennant," said Dr. Singh. "We may make a mistake in re-attaching your new knees. There is always the risk of infection. Your body may reject the implant."
I glanced at Brenda, who was sitting by the wall in my wheelchair, hands in her lap, quietly observing everything. She gave the smallest shrug observable.
"Assuming you survive the operation," said Dr. Singh, "If any of a number of things would go wrong, you might lose both your legs."
"And in the best case?"
"You will be able to walk, even run again in a matter of weeks, maybe months. Finally, the implants will wear out and need replacing, maybe in twenty years or so."
Dr. Bernhardt took my hand, looked into my eyes.
"Think about it, Alexandra. Talk about it with your friends and family. There is no hurry. Let us know what you decide."
There were three knocks on the door. Dr. Bernhardt opened it and Andrew Parsons squeezed himself through the doorframe. Back by the wall, I could see Brenda sitting up straight. I quietly shook my head at her. She grinned in return.
"I am here to measure Miss Tennants' legs," he said. "For the replacement knees."
"Andrew," said Dr. Bernhardt. "No decisions have been made yet on that score. You are too early to trouble Miss Tennant with this."
"Let him," I said. "We may as well get this over with."
The first time we met, he measured me accurate to the last Continental unit, simply by looking at me. How much worse could this be?
"But it is a useless exercise!" Dr. Bernhardt raised his hands. "He needs to know the size of your bones, and the usual methods of estimation are made inaccurate by swelling. He cannot look inside your legs!"
"Just a minute," said Dr. Singh. He walked over to a human skeleton hanging from its support in the corner of the room and brought it to Andrew.
"Mr. Parsons, please observe." He pointed at the skeleton's knee. "This is the part of Miss Tennant's knee that we need to replace, from here..." He marked a part on the bone. "To here. This is the fibula... tibia. The tibia serves to stabilise the leg, and must be preserved in full, where it rests against the tibiofibular joint. What are your thoughts?"
Andrew looked at the dead person's knee joint with an intensity greater than any. He closed his eyes a moment, then pointed.
"I will fashion a sleeve that will go over the ends of femur and tibia, which will need to be shortened to here. I will replicate the shape of the tibiofemural joint so that it can move as before. Attachment will be by screws here, here, and here." he pointed.
"I must remind you, that there must be no protruding elements, as the muscles will need to move along these sleeves."
"I will counter-sink the screws."
"Another thing is that the joint will operate in a wet, mildly saline, oxygen-rich environment. Rust and corrosion are serious problems, as we can hardly open up Miss Tennant's legs to oil them. Obviously, any lubricants or toxic substances are out of the question."
Andrew frowned a moment. "I can use an alloy of chromium and steel that will resist corrosion for approximately fifty-five years."
Dr. Singh looked at Andrew. "Do you have an answer to everything, Mr. Parsons?"
"No."
Dr Singh stood up, and so did Andrew. "Would you like to take the skeleton with you, for reference?"
"No. That will not be necessary. I need to know the size of Miss Tennant's bones."
"Precisely!" Dr. Bernhardt. "Like I said before, How do you propose to look inside Miss Alexandra's legs?"
"Presumably, you have measuring apparatus for this purpose?"
"Damn it, Parsons, I am a doctor, not an engineer. I hardly ever need to measure anyone's bones, and when I do, it is usually post-mortem."
"I have brought my calipers," said Andrew.
"Do I have to keep repeating myself? They cannot measure inside Miss Tennant's legs!"
"Perhaps..." Dr Singh rubbed his chin. "If we attach a pair of awls to the legs of the caliper, we can penetrate the tissue until we touch the bone."
Dr. Bernhardt glowered at Dr. Singh. "Praveen, you are being unhelpfully helpful. This will be torture for Miss Alexandra. And to what purpose?"
For the tiniest of moments, I was back on the bench, under the mountain. Anger stirred in me. I scowled.
"Doctor." I said. "I have endured actual torture, where people were hurting me to destroy me. This is in the interest of restoring me, and I have just had a dose of morphia. Dr. Singh, Andrew, Please proceed."
Andrew produced a small welding torch, and welded two of Dr. Bernhard's medical needles to the calipers. I watched in amazement when he held it up to the light, closed it, and the needle-sharp points actually touched in the middle. He nodded, satisfied. At Dr. Singh's directions, he played the torch flame over the needles once or twice to sterilise them. He waited for the metal to cool down. Then, without another word, he walked up to my bed, pulled my skirt up, and pushed the needles into my leg.
It hurt.
Despite the morphia, I had to grit my teeth and hold tightly onto what turned out to be Dr. Bernhardt's wrist. Andrew took his measurement, pulled out the needles, then turned the calipers a quarter-turn and pushed them in again. I closed my eyes tightly, and I must have let out a whimper. There was a hand on my shoulder, a voice in my ear.
"Suck it down, Tennant, you've had worse than this."
I took a few shallow breaths, glared at Brenda. "Go to hell, soldier. Ah!"
"Marine, Tennant. Soldiers are sissies." She came a bit closer. "You're not a soldier are you?"
"I'm a bloody sniper. I shoot bloody marines."
"Good on you."
Andrew finished his measurements, and Dr. Singh busied himself putting bandaids over the wounds.
"I will start the design of your knees now, Miss Tennant," said Andrew.
Just as Andrew turned round to leave, the door opened and several people came in. The first was a man in a raincoat. The second was a furious Miss Felicia Sunderland. Next were a number of uniformed policemen.
"Andrew Parsons?"
"Yes."
"Inspector Morris, Ipswich Police department. You're under arrest for aggravated bodily harm on Miss Carrie StJohn." He held out a pair of handcuffs. "You're coming with us."
"No he's not!" Miss Sunderland stepped between Andrew and inspector Morris. "You are not putting Andrew in with the criminals in your jail."
"He broke a young girl's arm, Miss. That's not what law abiding citizens do."
"That was an accident!"
"If he's innocent, Miss, he's got nothing to fear."
"If you want to arrest him, you'll have to arrest me as well!"
Miss Felicia drew back her hand to strike down an officer of the Law, but before she could, someone grabbed her arm.
"Change of personnel, Miss. You get into jail, they'll eat you alive. You look after Tennant, I'll look after Andrew."
"What? You..."
It didn't even look as though Brenda moved particularly fast. She grabbed the inspector's hand, still holding the handcuffs, and pulled him back towards her. She pushed her knee into the back of his and dropped him on his knees. Her arm wrapped itself round his neck in a scarily efficient choke hold.
"Back off, coppers! I can break his neck before you take one step."
The inspector struggled in Brenda's grasp. "What the bloody hell..."
"You wanna arrest me? I'll come quietly if you put me in the cell with Andrew."
"What makes you think you..."
Brenda tightened her grip.
"I can make this hurt a lot more. You want me to come quietly, don't you? I don't know if I can win against all those cops, but I'm damn sure that if I try, some of them ain't gonna sleep in their own beds tonight."
"You want to be in the cell with him?"
"I'd love to be in a cell with him."
"Done," said the Inspector.
Brenda let go. She held out her arms.
"Oh god, what was I thinking? Resisting such a fine body of men. Please be gentle with me."
Morris got to his feet, rubbing his neck. He pulled Brenda's hands behind her back and cuffed her.
"You're going to have a lot of friends tonight," he growled.
"Oh goody," said Brenda.
Andrew and Brenda were firmly escorted into a police carriage, and carted off. Miss Felicia turned to me.
"Well, Miss Tennant," she said. "I think I'll take you back to your airship, and then I'm going to have a word with Miss StJohn's parents."
She gave the wheelchair a push and set off for Lady I.
"And rip their heads off," she added.
Carl Tennant: Fire and freedom.
Travelling salesmen - A quick detour to the City - Agent Wainwright's predatory instincts - The web over the world - News from an old acquaintance - The fire of London - Get out of jail free
The handiwork of God
Linda Davenport reporting
We humans are, in essence, well-oiled machines that have one task: to make more humans. Without any special equipment, we can replicate ourselves, using only food, a certain exchange of bodily fluids, and love. Many philosophers have asked why. Vicars will tell you that this is to glorify the name of God. Biologists will tell you that the will to live is innate in every organism, from the tiniest ant to the largest cetacean that glides through the deep blue sea. As the Bard says: "What a piece of work is a Man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! In form and moving how like an Angel! In apprehension how like a god!"
And yet, this machine may break like any other. A small cut may heal itself given just a few minutes. Broken bones, when properly set, will grow together and be as good as new. But sometimes, the damage is too great, and in cruel and uncaring Nature, that individual, unable to run, would die, a prey to the wolves. And here it is that Humanity shows its greatest weapon against all things that the Universe throws at us: Knowledge. Our intellect, our ingenuety, our reason, allows us to devise ways to save from the brink of death the most damaged of creatures, and send them running to live out their lives.
This is the task of our Physicians. Under the capable leadership of Prof. Dr. Bernhardt, we know how to make whole that which was broken, to soothe the pain, to heal the wounds. It is an awesome thought that we, the students at Algernon University, need only ask, and all this knowledge will be made available to us. Through repairing the work of God when it breaks, we gain, tiny though it may be, a small shred of divinity ourselves.
I was on kitchen duty when our Lady got her feet dry, and we were once more above English soil. I was frying up breakfast as miss Lee came into the kitchen, and wordlessly started slicing bread and putting it under the grill. I tried, but she was in no mood to talk. I set her to stir the baked beans, and carried out the rest of breakfast. Today, Father would talk to the medical staff about treatments for Alex, and I would start on what was to become our main business. Transporting scientists to the most inhospitable places of this world so they could do their research. I was well prepared. I had maps, I had the specifications of Lady I, how fast she was, how much she could carry, how many people we could have on board, how far we could go on a full bunker of high-energy coal. And of course, how much we would charge for all of these facilities. I must admit that our services did not come cheap, but the ability to place scientific expeditions anywhere on the globe would be invaluable to the scientists, while being perfectly valuable to us.
Alex slowly walked up to the table. It broke my heart to see her, having seen her run, climb, jump, fearless and strong. I could only hope that, no matter what the cost to ourselves, the doctors would be able to restore her. I helped her into her seat, and she murmured a quiet 'thank you', looking at me with eyes dulled by pain and morphia. We ate quickly and quietly. Then, I went fore'ard to help Father mooring in our usual place, next to the Homoeopathic Gardens. Father held Lady I steady as I tied off the cables. Father came down the gangway, filling his pipe. With the very real possibility of holes in the envelope, he'd had to restrain himself on the way home.
"Are you ready for your meeting with the Faculty?"
"I am, Father."
"Good. I will have a meeting with Chancellor Munroe later. I'll see to it that Alexandra gets the best treatment that this University has to offer."
"Can we afford that, Father?"
Father blew out a thick cloud of smoke. His eye glinted. "Old Huitzilopochtli still has a lot of gold in him. We're down to his shoulders, I'd imagine. Don't worry about money, my son."
Agent Wainwright came walking down the gangplank, duffel bag on his shoulder. He shook hands with me and Father, then walked off to the main University building to report on his doings to Dr. Pike.
I went back on board to fetch my briefcase. Fatin was in our cabin, changing her clothes. I gave her a brief kiss and turned to leave. She took hold of my shoulder, spun me round.
"What is this, Kal Tennant? Are you running away from me?" she said, in Ajuru, and kissed me much more thoroughly. "Good hunting."
"Hope the Scientists don't eat me," I said.
"They only talk and scribble words on paper," she said. "You have nothing to fear. Bring me their skins, and I will come to you tonight."
"Skins are the Ajuru way, I said. "I will bring you their money."
Alex was sitting at the table holding Raage. I gave her a little wave in passing, but she didn't notice.
I walked across the lawn past what seemed to be a vegetable patch. A sign said "Homoeopathic Garden." These were the medicinal herbs used to prepare powerful tinctures. One of their tenets was "like cures like". I looked for herbs that resembled broken knees, but couldn't see any. I'd had homoeopathic medicines for things like coughs and stomach pains. Mother swore by them. Alex had always hated the taste, sweet like honey but with an aftertaste that would spoil one's enjoyment of real honey. Only once had she taken all of her medicine without complaint, but that was after replacing her Tincture of Bryonia with water. She got rid of her cough three days before I did.
Chancellor Munroe had invited me to his office for a few minutes' private conversation, before meeting the board. A secretary offered me coffee, which I politely refused, and I sat down to wait. Inside, I could hear agitated voices and the slow, reasonable voice of the Chancellor trying to calm his guests down. I tried to catch what they were talking about, but that proved quite impossible. It wasn't my business anyway. I looked at my watch, and saw that twenty minutes had passed since my appointment. I looked at the secretary, wordlessly asking.
"Parents," she said, as if that explained everything.
At that moment, the door opened and a man and a woman came out. The woman gave Munroe a stare that would have ignited high-energy coal. They left, and Munroe turned to his secretary.
"The scunners are setting the lawyers on us Clarice. They think puir wee Andrew is a menace to the student body. Why aren't these eejits all up about the murdering bastard that put a bleeding cannon to his heid? If that prick'd still had his gun, he could've turned it intae a bloody massacre. Why do the Sassenach have lugs, Clarice? Tell me that. They sure as hell aren't using them!"
I coughed politely, and Chancellor Munroe turned round, only now noticing me.
"Oh, Mr. Tennant." I could see him take a deep breath and get a hold of himself. "I'm dreadfully sorry, but I'll have to excuse myself. I have an urgent matter to attend to..." he laughed wryly. "As I'm sure you'll have gathered. Get Clarice to make another appointment, if you don't mind."
"That's quite alright," I said. "I hope and trust you'll be able to sort this out."
"Thank you, Sir," said Munroe, and stomped off out of the door.
Clarice smiled at me. "Now would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Tennant?"
I looked at the door, then back at the nice lady.
"That would be lovely, thank you."
I walked out of Munroe's office, meetings moved to next week. The rest of the day was mine. I considered simply going back to Lady I, but without the pale hides or stacks of money of the scientists, Fatin in fairness had no reason whatsoever to keep her end of the bargain. I thought of finding Alex, but she would be in the hands of the doctors, and I could do nothing except maybe hold her hand, a thing she had never thanked me for. What to do?
The problem was taken out of my hands by running feet behind me. Agent Wainwright stepped up to me.
"How fast can Lady I get me to London?"
I was well prepared for this question. It is sixty-seven miles from the tower of Algernon to the Tower of London. Once on full steam, it would take our Lady about half an hour to cover that distance at her optimal altitude. Sadly, only the starboard boiler, by Fatin called "Iris", was at steam, so including powering up Itzel as well...
"Good. Let's go!" He started to run off in the direction of our Lady.
"Just wait one minute!" I said. "What's this all about, Wainwright?"
"We've found a Prometheus hideout. Get going, man! I'll explain the rest under way."
Within ten minutes, Lady I was aloft, and heading west-south-west towards the city of Colchester, which I needed to steer well clear off because of other airships in the region. I was keeping an eagle eye on Itzel's pressure gauge as she came up to the boil. Fatin came walking onto the bridge, Raage on her arm. She raised her eyebrows.
"My love? Where are we going?"
"Good morning, Mrs. Tennant," said Wainwright. "We're going to London, to hunt the wily Prometheus."
Fatin cast a quick eye outside, scanning the horizon for moving things.
"Hold Raage," she said, pushing him into Wainwright's arms. She stepped forward, pushed the wheel Southward, adjusted the ailleron controls to rise. In the distance, a British Overseas Airship Company dirigible, with its bright blue and yellow markings, fell away from our course line.
"Where is Captain Philip?" Fatin returned us to our previous course.
"Still at the University," I said, taking over the helm.
Fatin put her arms round my waist, her chin on my shoulder.
"Obsiye once took Odawaa's spear without asking," said Fatin. "He had seen a fat antelope. Odawaa kicked him out of the camp and into the river." Fatin kissed me under my right ear, which reminded me of other occasions when she had done that. "Luckily, Captain Philip only has one leg."
"Um Ma'am?" Wainwright offered up Raage to Fatin.
"You can hold him," said Fatin, holding on to me tighter. "I am busy. Men. You always think your job is done once you leave the tent."
"I protest," I said. "I have never shirked my duties, no matter how well Raage had drunk."
"I have not counted the times, my love. And I will not. You do other things to make it up to me." She turned her eyes to Wainwright. "But Alex will remember, Wainwright. Keep that in mind."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You like to look at Alex, do you not? Like you did when we were having tea and cake in Ipswich."
"Ma'am, are you suggesting?!"
"She told me that you are an idiot," said Fatin. "She took a long time to say how you are an idiot." Fatin closed her eyes and leaned on my shoulder. Her smile lit up the whole bridge. "Once the doctors make her legs better, she will remember more ways."
"Tennant! Your woman is casting aspersions on me! Control her!"
"Control her? Good Lord, Wainwright, can't you see I'm completely under her spell? More importantly, what are your intentions towards my sister?"
"None at all, Tennant. I have no intentions whatsoever."
"He looks at the kudu," said Fatin, in Ajuru, "but he eats the vegetables."
I burst out laughing. Wainwright sneered.
"Little boy," he said to Raage, "your parents are horrible people."
We arrived at London in the late morning. Wainwright armed himself with a revolver, and asked to be set down near a slightly more lavishly decorated building in one of the less salubrious parts of the City. I looked down through the telescope.
"Wainwright, that is a whorehouse if ever I saw one! Did you take us here to satisfy your Earthly desires?"
"It's the address I got from our friends in the Service," said Wainwright.
"Carl?" Fatin looked puzzled. "What is a... horr-house?"
"Um..."
This is why it is important to control your language. You may find yourself having to explain the concept of prostitution to a woman from a place with no concept of money, extramarital sex, or for that matter, formal marriage.
"It's a place where men, mostly men, go to, um, be with women."
"There is only one house for that?" Fatin grinned. "For so many people?"
"It's for men who don't have women of their own," I said.
"Would Wainwright go there to meet Alex?" Fatin's eyes gleamed. Innocent she might be, but not that innocent.
"God, I hope not," said Wainwright.
"Do you need any help down there?" I said. "If there's Prometheus agents down there, not prostitutes. With prostitutes, you are on your own."
"One does not necessarily exclude the other," said Wainwright. "Prometheus may well be employing ladies of the night. They make excellent spies." He grinned. "It may be an undercover operation."
"Are you trying out your ancient ancestral jokes on the civilians, Wainwright? If so, it's not a very good one."
"I do not understand the joke," said Fatin. "But I can tell it is a joke for the men."
"I do apologise Mrs. Tennant. I suppose it is a bit off colour. About, um..." He looked at me. "Being with women."
"Yes." Fatin grinned. Would it ever be possible for me to look at her and not be struck by her beauty? "A joke for the men."
I grabbed my revolver from the weapons cabinet and loaded it.
We looked down for a place to set down. There was a small park a little way away, and there we dropped down to ladder height. I turned to Fatin.
"When we are down, go high. When we are ready to come up, I will send up a blue flare. If we are not back before dark, return to Ipswich and get help."
Fatin nodded, embraced me, kissed me. "Do not stay away too long, Feeder-of-lions."
"I will make it a point not to," I said.
Wainwright and I walked to the house of questionable repute. There was a back garden, and we could leap the fence with little trouble. We came up to the back door, and Wainwright produced a set of lock picks.
"If we're caught, then we're breaking and entering," I said. "Why didn't you call the police instead?"
"We're operating under the assumption that not all law enforcement agencies are clean. Not even we ourselves." He put some force on his lockpick and pushed open the door. "It's not even paranoia. We are after everyone, so the fear is perfectly reasonable."
Wainwright slowly made his way inside, hand on his revolver. I followed him. He looked much more at home in an urban setting than he had been in the Sudanese desert, walking confidently, opening doors. We found nobody and nothing. Perhaps someone simply had a taste for bright colours in a gray area. Wainwright made his way up the stairs, keeping his back to the wall. We found nothing but perfectly normal bedrooms. The beds in it had not been slept in for ages, because they were dusty. This left only the attic. I found a hatch in the ceiling by the bathroom, and pulled it down to reveal a ladder that slid down onto the ground. Wainwright climbed up the ladder and looked round.
"There's something here," he said. He climbed up the ladder, and I could hear him strike a match. "Come look at this," he said.
I climbed onto the loft, which was cramped and mostly taken up by a device. It looked vaguely like a chicken coop with a round domed top. It was made mostly out of copper wire, coiled upon a number of wooden frames.
"What is this thing?" I asked.
"Ow!" The match had burned down to Wainwright's fingers. He lit another one and played the light on the contraption. "I've no idea," he said. "Wait!" He shook out the match, dropped it on the floor, lit another one. "There's some kind of pipe going down there. I think it's going down the chimney. Let's see where it leads."
We climbed down the ladder, went down the stairs, keeping an eye on where the chimney was. After a bit of searching, we found a hatch leading to a cellar. Where the attic had been dark, this cellar was lit by bright lights in the ceiling, of a colour almost whiter than white. The lights hummed and crackled, but there was no smell of flame or smoke. Wainwright pointed up. The pipe we had seen upstairs reappeared from a hole in the ceiling, and ran down to an outlandish contraption built up against two of the walls. It was a panel with a multitude of gauges, the needles of which quivered nervously. In the center of one of the panels was some sort of clock, but instead of the normal Roman numerals, it had all the letters of the alphabet, all the digits, and assorted punctuation marks. The hand of the dial was pointing at a full stop. Underneath was a bakelite plate with holes in. Behind each of the holes was a similar collection of letters. Further investigation showed a number of lights and small handles that would never turn anything hydraulic. Labels said "LVTETIA", "MOSQVA", "LONDINIVM", "VENETICA" and several other names, which I recognised as the names of major cities, and one that read "NIDIS AQVILARVM". That light would never come on again. Wainwright pulled out a notebook, and wrote down all the names. As we watched, the light next to Lutetia, or Paris, turned itself on by no visible means. It stayed on for maybe a minute or so, then turned itself off again. As we waited, the light came on again.
"Something's happening in Paris," said Wainwright. "I am watching something happening in Paris."
"Would be nice if we knew what it was," I said. "Hang on." I reached out and pushed the small handle next to Lutetia to the right. There was a sudden hum and the hand on the clock started to turn. It stopped on the O. After a moment, it moved back to the top and turned again, this time stopping on the N.
"ON," said Wainwright, noting it down in his Moleskine notebook. In order, the needle indicated an E, a space, a T, an H...
"E, R, E," I said. Anyone there?
The Paris light went out, then after a while it came back on. The hand on the clock pointed at the I, then at S.
"Is anyone there?" said Wainwright. "Over and over again."
"Shall we answer?" I said.
"Would be rude not to, but how?"
"Let me see. That plate there looks like it will turn. There is an end stop. Let me try."
I put my finger in the hole over the "W", and turned it all the way to the end stop. Then I let it go, and it returned to its original position. I looked at Wainwright, who shrugged. I spelled out "Who is there?"
We waited. The clock started to spell out another message: "Who are you?"
"Well, that's a bit rude," I said.
"Or cautious," said Wainwright.
"This isn't getting anywhere," I said. I spelled out "Carl Tennant. Who are you?"
The answer came back: "Riley."
"Riley?" said Wainwright. "He must have found the Paris nest of Prometheans."
"Well done to him," I said.
At that point, there was the sound of a bell, and the Venice light came on briefly. A red light ignited at the top of the panel. There was the sound of running liquid. I sniffed. It smelt like some kind of oil. Was the machine refueling?
"The dial is moving again," said Wainwright. "Hang on... G, E, T, get, O..."
"Get out!"
We looked at each other, then ran up the ladder, out of the back door, leapt the fence, and kept running. Behind us, the world blossomed up in fire.
We quickly made our way to the park, with its wooden benches and war memorials. I pulled out my blue flare, looked at it.
"Don't," said Wainwright. We'll have all the Bobbies on our necks and then it'll take me ages to talk my way out."
I pointed up. Above our heads, propellers spinning slowly, Lady I came floating down.
"I think Fatin has seen the fire. She will have guessed that we want to leave."
"Oh good," said Wainwright. A four hundred feet long airship is nowhere near as conspicuous as a signalling flare."
"She is painted in camouflage colours," I said. "Nobody will see us."
Lady I was at altitude again. Wainwright was looking down through the telescope.
"I think they have the fire under control," he said.
"Good," I said, rocking Raage on my arm while standing at the wheel. Lady I's propellers were spinning lazily, keeping her in place against the breeze. "If we'd tried to explain that this fire was caused by someone in Venice, they'd have trouble deciding whether to stick us in jail or in an insane asylum."
Fatin swiveled the captain's chair round to look at me. "Do you think it is time to return to Alex? I want to know if they have made her knees better yet."
I uncoupled the starboard propeller, reversed its pitch, turned it on again, and Lady I started to turn on the spot. At a moderate speed, we turned to the east-north-east back to Ipswich.
"So now we know how Slate knew about the Khartoum Airfleet." Wainwright came walking up the steps to the helm. He started wandering about looking at various controls, poking at them with his finger, and I wished he wouldn't.
"Was there a light marked Khartoum?"
"Yes. Khartumen, surprisingly."
"Somebody tried to kill us," I said. "They must have seen we were using their equipment. I hope they didn't get Riley. He's an annoying bastard, but he has his uses."
"They must have anticipated someone finding one of their lairs. They can destroy them from anywhere in the world!"
I stared ahead, keeping Lady I on course by eye rather than the compass.
"This changes everything," I said. "It no longer matters where in the world Slate is. He can act instantly anywhere there is one of these contraptions."
"We've been stupid," said Wainwright. "We should have realised that we would give ourselves away by playing with that machine. That there would be protocols. Passwords. Key phrases."
"Live and learn," I said.
"Back in the Service, we prefer That which you don't know won't hurt you. It'll kill you."
"Are you still in the Service? Dr. Pike seems to have left."
Wainwright gave the world a little smirk. "I'm a liaison of sorts, between her Majesty's Secret Service and one of the middle size centres of education. Or alternatively, Pike's dogsbody till he sees fit to accept retirement for what it is."
Fatin pointed. "There is the tower! We are back. I will take the helm and you big strong men will tie up the ropes."
Lady I lowered herself onto the lawn, where I could see a lone figure standing, arms crossed. I could only imagine the expression on Father's face. He waited till we had connected the moorings, then walked up to me with a slightly exaggerated limp and a sardonic look in his eye.
"Hello Carl. It's good to see you and Lady I are back safely."
"I can explain, Father."
"I have to admit that I was afraid she'd slipped her tethers and flown off into the blue, never to be seen again, carrying your poor wife and child to destinations unknown. I was extremely worried, but now that I see you safe and sound, my heart sings with joy."
"Father, I..."
"A ship needs her Captain," said Father.
Wainwright coughed. "I hired her, Sir. I needed to be in London at very short notice, and I was extremely lucky that Lady I was able to transport me there."
"Did you now?"
"Aye, Sir. I am also very grateful for your son's assistance at the location. We have found some extremely important information. You will find that Algernon University will appreciate this. We look forward to your invoice."
Father gave him a look, then laughed. "We will be sure to send it to you forthwith, Mr. Wainwright."
Wainwright nodded, and walked off in the direction of the University. Father turned to me, opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head.
"It seems that today, you live."
"How is Alexandra?"
Father sighed. "She has got a rather bizarre idea in her head. She wants Mr. Parsons to make her a new pair of knees."
I raised my eyebrows. "That's not possible, is it?"
"Who knows? Maybe it is. But this is dangerous, Carl. Very dangerous. They would have to put her under the Aether. This could end very badly."
"Good lord." I turned pale. Those who are put under the Aether, when the pain of an operation is too much to bear lying still, often never wake up again. "I would much rather have a live sister with broken knees, than a dead one."
"I'll not argue with you there," said Father. "But it seems that even with all the might of Dr. Singh, they will not be able to restore her to anything near her former self."
"And Andrew Parsons can?"
"Apparently so. But the risks... The risks! Almost nobody has done this before. I would not allow it, except this is not mine to allow or forbid."
"Father, do you remember the night on the Eiffel Tower?"
"Of course. Why?"
"On that night, she leapt from one of the support beams, at a height of a hundred yards, into my arms. Alex is not one to shy away from taking risks. Not when she knows that we are there to catch her."
Father and I walked up to the gangplank. Fatin came out of the door with Raage in a sling like she had him on the banks of the White Nile.
"My love, I see that you and Captain Philip are at peace. Good. Now, we go and find Alex."
"There are repairs to do," said Father. "The starboard window of the bridge has a bullet hole in it. We must search the envelopes for holes and patch them."
Fatin smiled at him. "And also, we need to repair Alex."
"I will not have Lady I become a den of mutiny and ill discipline! I am your Captain and Father! You will obey my orders or I will make you walk the plank and then keelhaul you!"
Fatin came walking down the gangplank, passing Father on his blind side. She reached out, took his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek.
"Unhand me, woman! Do the women in your tribe disrespect their elders like that?"
"I did. Elder Hanad was not happy. So I..." she frowned in concentration. "Dis-re-spect him." She grinned. "After that, he was still not happy, but Dhuuxo was. Dhuuxo is his woman."
"Get out of here, then."
"Aye-aye Captain," said Fatin. She took my arm and we walked to the University building.
"That's not what 'disrespecting' means, you know?"
"I want to dis-respect you a lot this night."
"I've changed my mind," I said. "That's exactly what it means."
As we entered the main building, we were met with Alex in a wheelchair, and Miss Sunderland, coming the other way. Miss Sunderland gave us a small satisfied nod.
"Good day Mr. Tennant, Mrs. Tennant. It's good to see you. Could you please take Miss Tennant off my hands? I have a little job to do."
"Um... Where, may I ask, is Miss Lee?"
"In the hands of the Law, Mr. Tennant. She assaulted Inspector Morris, so I wouldn't have to."
"She assaulted a police inspector?"
"Bloody sailors," said Alex. "Soon as their feet touch dry land, they get off their heads on tea, start beating up policemen and get taken to the tank."
"Charming though Miss Lee is, she is not my main concern. They have also taken Andrew. So if you don't mind, I have to gather an army of lawyers and storm Museum Street."
"Can we be of any assistance?"
Miss Sunderland gave me a sweet smile. "Since you brought in the people who caused all this mess, I think you have done quite enough. Well, Miss Tennant, I leave you in the loving embrace of your family. Ta ta for now."
And with that, she turned round and stormed off for her office. Fatin and I looked at Alex.
"Are your knees better yet?" said Fatin.
"Still sore," said Alex. "And the one person who can mend them is in the stir."
"What do you mean?"
"Prison," I said. "It's where they put people who misbehave."
"Mis... behave?"
"Steal things. Start fights. Break things."
"Oh." Fatin nodded. "When people do that in Africa, we just tell them to leave."
"What if they don't?" said Alex.
A look came into Fatin's eyes that I am glad I have not seen often. It reminded me that behind that lively, beautiful face, overflowing with love and laughter, lay an inner core as hard and immovable as stone.
"We let them stay," she said.
Alex insisted on wheeling herself along, and it must be said that she had a marked advantage over us. Fatin and I had to step up to keep up.
"Are we going to free our Cabin Boy from prison?"
"I'm not going to do anything," said Alex, visibly annoyed. "I am getting tired of this. Cut off my legs and give me a pair like Father has. I want to be useful again!"
"Father said you'd asked Parsons for a new pair of knees. I thought you were joking."
Alex gave the wheels a hard push, and rolled on for a while.
"I was," she said. "But then Andrew just said he could, and I went as far as to have him measure up my bones. He seemed to think it was easy."
"Will you really do it?"
Alex stopped one of the wheels with her hand, turned round, and continued on backwards, looking at us.
"The way I see it, I have a choice. I can do nothing. Continue as I am now. I will get used to the pain, but I will never walk easily again." She looked at the floor for a moment. "I hate the Laudanum. It is living death. Dr. Bernhardt says he has something better, but I doubt it will be healthy."
"The drops take you away," said Fatin.
Alex nodded sadly. "I can also have Dr. Singh ply his craft on me. He is the best in his field, and even he can only restore me to maybe a stumble. I'd need a cane for the rest of my life. But with some changes to Lady I, I could at least do my share of the work. Perhaps a year or more from now, I could take the helm again." She shook her head. "It's not enough. I don't want to be the subject of everyone's pity."
I could not think of anything to say to Alex. She kept rolling backwards, using the walls of the hallway to steer by.
"Or, I can try Andrew's way. If he says that he fully understands how the human knee works, I believe him. Cut out the damaged bit, and put in a new."
"You could die, Alex," I said.
"Yes."
"I don't want you to die."
"Good. I don't want to die. But if I have to die, then I'd rather die quickly, in my sleep, than have it drawn out over several years." She took a deep breath. "I'm going to do it."
"Alex, stop."
"Don't try to stop me," said Alex. And then she ran into the door. She bumped her head quite badly, and bent forward. Her shoulders started to shake, and as I kneeled by her, she looked up, laughing. She put her hands on my cheeks, looked deep into my eyes. "Carl, I don't want to die. I want to live. I want to walk, run, climb again."
I gently stroked my sister's cheek. "That may not happen even with Knee Joint, Mark One. There is so much that can go wrong."
"But it's the only thing that can go right, Carl. I don't want to limp along in a haze of medication for years."
She smiled at me then, through the pain and the medicine, and I was convinced. It was the only thing to do.
"If you die, dear sister of mine, I shall tidy up your cabin by shoveling the contents into your grave, for you to tidy up in the Hereafter."
"Save the clothes for Fatin."
The door opened, and banged into the back of Alex' wheelchair. She looked round, annoyed.
"Hey! Be careful!"
She wheeled herself out of the way, and the door opened again, slowly. A brown eye and a blonde plait appeared round the door. Then it opened wide, and Miss Florence Albrecht came leaping in.
"Miss Tennant! You're back!"
Behind Florence, Jocelyn and a boy, Nigel I believe, came in.
"We won! We won we won!"
Jocelyn raised the trophy above her head. The door now opened completely and Dr. Godfrey Pike came in. He was not quite as lively.
"Ah. Tennants. Good afternoon to you."
"Oh God!" We looked round to see Florence staring at Alex, eyes wide open. "What happened to you?"
Alex forced herself to smile. "Fell over and hit a bench."
"You're in a wheelchair," said Jocelyn. "Did you break a leg?"
"I had people to do that for me," said Alex. "Don't worry, it will all be sorted out before long. You won? What did you win?"
"The Folkestone Rifle Contest, Miss Tennant," said Nigel.
"Yes!" Jocelyn beamed. "The Etons messed with our scope, but Nigel managed to compensate. And Flo and I did the rest."
"Well done!" I said. "Next, celebrations and revelry?"
Jocelyn turned her eyes to Nigel, whose cheeks turned a shade darker.
"Maybe," she said.
"What is this I have to hear about Parsons being arrested?" said Pike.
"I believe Miss StJohn's parents have decided to press charges." I said.
"They put him in chains just after he finished measuring me up," said Alex. "Miss Felicia wanted to tear the inspector to bits so she could join him in the Stone Jug, but Brenda jumped in. She's somewhat better proof against prison life."
"And here I was, thinking I had all the excitement in Folkestone," said Pike. "Mr. Tennant, is Miss Lee an official member of your crew?"
"Of c..." I hesitated. "If I ask Father, she can be."
I caught Fatin's amused look. She had handed over Raage to Florence, and Jocelyn was hovering behind her waiting for her turn.
"Good. Let's talk to Captain Tennant, and then we can all go to Museum Street, and free our Andrew."
We sent a strong delegation to the Police station. Myself, Dr. Pike, Miss Felicia, and a small grey man named Dr. Perkins, who had taught Law at a previous university, and had kept his knowledge up to date after he came to Ipswich to teach English Literature. We walked up to the desk and asked for a meeting with Inspector Morris. We were told to take a seat, and kept waiting for maybe half an hour. I suggested fetching Lady I and using her cannons, and Dr. Pike suggested I keep my mouth shut. Finally, a constable came and led us all into Morris' office. We were seated on metal chairs.
"Gentlemen, Madam," said Inspector Morris. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
Perkins sat up. "Good afternoon, Inspector. Our business is as follows. You and your constables have arrested one of our faculty members, and one of the Airship Lady I's crewmen, on a charge of aggravated bodily harm, when the relevant events had already been designated an accident. We are strongly of the opinion that in this case, the Ipswich constabulary have erred in their application of the Law, and humbly appeal for their immediate release."
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Mr. Perkins. The parents of the young lady do not share your opinion. Their daughter suffered a grievous injury, from which she will be slow to recover."
"Inspector Morris," I said. "My sister was captured, savagely beaten, and her legs broken over a period of several days, to the point where she may never walk again. Conversely, Miss StJohn is expected to make a full recovery in maybe six weeks, when she will regretfully have to give up her plaster cast that bears the signature of the very person you now have in custody."
"Please pass on to your sister my best wishes, Mr. Tennant. But I simply cannot release Mr. Parsons, nor his companion, until the court case."
"I'm afraid there will not be a court case, Samuel," said Dr. Pike. "The accident occurred while Mr. Parsons was attending to an emergency to do with state security. Have you heard about the fire in London?"
"They erected another monument in its honour, Godfrey," said the Inspector. "What is your point?"
"We have strong evidence to suggest that the same organisation that set fire to a building in South London, is also responsible for sending on an abduction mission the Russian gentleman we put into your care. He is part of a larger organisation who have made several attempts on the lives of our faculty members, as well as the Tennant family. To put Mr. Parsons in with the criminals who may be part of that same organisation is... inadvisable."
"Godfrey, are you suggesting I simply let him go?"
"In a word, yes. You know as well as I do that Mr. Parsons is going nowhere. He will be available for any questions you may have. Put him under house arrest, do not allow him to leave University grounds, and he will not even notice. Put him in here..."
Miss Felicia Sunderland spoke up. "Inspector, Andrew's mind is a fragile thing. He cannot endure life in prison, especially not his fellow inmates. At this moment, he is a gentle soul who can lift a thousand pounds clean off the ground. If he had really wanted to hurt Miss StJohn, he would have been physically capable of tearing her limb from limb. I do not want to see him become mentally capable of doing such things."
"Nevertheless..." Inspector Morris reordered a few papers on his desk that were already perfectly straight. "The parents wish for the guilty party to their child's injury to pay for what he did. I cannot simply let him go, and I'm afraid that is final."
Dr. Pike took a deep breath. "Samuel," he said, "I was hoping that we could settle this between ourselves, but it now seems clear to me that your hands are tied, and that I will need someone to, well, untie them. I will contact the Service and have them file the appropriate requests. We can only hope that the damage to Mr. Parsons' mind will not be irreversible. If you would be so kind, please put him in a separate cell away from the rest of the inmates."
Miss Felicia opened her mouth to say something, but Pike raised a finger.
"Are you threatening to go over my head, Pike?" said Inspector Morris.
Pike raised his hands. "Why would I threaten you with that, my dear friend? I am telling you. Let me make one final appeal. Andrew Parsons, despite the unfortunate accident, which he regrets as much as anyone, is not a danger to anyone while in the capable hands of Miss Felicia Sunderland. In here, among the criminals, he may learn certain behaviours that may make him quite unmanageable. How long has it been that anyone died in your cells? I am not only protecting Andrew from your inmates, I am protecting them from him."
"I still cannot simply release him, Pike."
"You need not release him, Morris. You simply need to move him to a holding facility better equipped to deal with..." Pike smirked. "Dangerous inmates like him." He stood up, walked over to Morris' desk, and leaned on it. "Samuel, you can release Andrew, if you release him into the care of the lady who has managed him since he came to Algernon. Set a guard on him if you must. I'm sure someone here has earned a relaxing job. This should be perfectly acceptable to any court. I will deal with the parents myself." He gave a little scowl. "Or, you can refuse, and I'll make your life hell for the next decade. You know I can."
Morris and Pike looked into each other's eyes for a long few moments, and I wondered where they had met, what their history was. Finally, Morris nodded.
"Very well then, Pike. I'll release Parsons into your care, and on your head be it if any trouble follows."
"Thank you, Samuel. I will make sure you do not regret this. You have my word."
"You owe me, Pike."
"I do. Now let's go get Parsons."
We all walked down to the cell block in the basement, for that dungeon atmosphere. We all stood still at a rather uncommon spectacle. The common holding cell was divided by an invisible line into two halves. One of the halves was occupied by Andrew Parsons. He had his large arm round the shoulders of Miss Brenda Lee, who was leaning into him. In the other half of the cell were all the other inmates, quietly muttering among themselves.
"She's crazy!" said someone in the back.
"I heard that," said Miss Lee.
Miss Felicia rushed forward. "Andrew! We're getting you out of here! Just sit tight and the policeman will open the door for you."
The nice policeman pulled out the keys and opened the door. Andrew stood up and walked out. Brenda sat back and whistled a little tune.
From the far end of the cell, a voice sounded. "What about her? You're gonna keep her here?"
I gave Inspector Morris a look. He looked at the heavens above.
"Get the bitch out of here, she's dragging down the place."
Brenda jumped up and trotted out of the door.
"Oh thanks 'Guv'. You say the nicest things."
A few stacks of signed paper later, Andrew Parsons was officially ours to keep, and Brenda Lee was thrown in as an extra. I officially reprimanded her, and she humbly bowed her head and folded her hands. We all bundled into the University carriage and set off for the University. Miss Felicia breathed a deep sigh of relief.
"Miss Lee, thank you for taking care of Andrew. You have no idea what could have happened."
"Any time Miss. Does that mean I can court your son now?"
"Miss Felicia does not have a son," said Andrew.
Brenda whispered something in his ear. Andrew's brow knotted.
"But you cannot carry my child. I have no child."
"Miss Lee is joking, Andrew." Miss Felicia stared. "At least I hope to God she is."
"Well Andrew," I said, eager to change the subject. "At least you can start on the design for Alexandra's knees now."
"I have completed them," said Andrew.
"Completed them? When?"
"When I was on my way to prison," said Andrew. "I will source the materials when I return to my workshop. The replacement knees, mark one, will be finished in eighteen work hours."
I looked into Andrew's gentle brown eyes, but he quickly looked away.
Twenty minutes later, we passed the gates of Algernon university.
Godfrey Pike: Janitorial duties
London's burning - Parental supervision - Raking through the ashes - News from Khartoum - Belief and knowledge
Andrew Parsons sent to prison!
Rina Prescott reporting
To those of us who know him, it seems absurd to think of Andrew Parsons as a violent, dangerous individual, but others are not of this opinion. He was arrested on an aggravated bodily harm charge, which carries a prison sentence of five years. Luckily, a fast acting group of Algernon University faculty and Lady I crewmembers were able to effect his return to his workshop, where he continues to work on his projects. The Algernon Clarion is able to report that the charges against him have been dropped.
One of Lady I's new crewmembers, a Miss Brenda Lee, volunteered to accompany Mr. Parsons to prison to protect him from the influence of his fellow inmates, a task which she performed with all due diligence. Her selfless actions surely prevented Mr. Parsons from suffering from the toxic environment in prison.
Mr. Parsons could not be contacted for comment.
Dear Winston,
I find myself currently pressed into a sort of janitorial role, where I have to come in with a mop and bucket and clean up the business other people have done on the carpet. Where to start? I have succeeded in restoring Andrew the Giant to his natural habitat of fire and steel, where he is now crafting a pair of replacement knees for Miss Alexandra Tennant. I still find it somewhat surreal that we can apparently repair not only machines but also people with bits of metal, but for her sake I am glad that she has a brighter future to hope for. To get Andrew free, I'm afraid I had to adopt a rather threatening demeanor and suggest that I have Secret Service powers I do not in fact officially posses. I like to think that it was my reasoning that persuaded Samuel Morris, and not fear of retribution.
Young Wainwright has done a sterling job in finding the London Prometheus hideout, and has managed to obtain a list of other such places, or at least the cities. Please find included his notes. Winston, we have severely underestimated Prometheus' technological capabilities. If I may believe Wainwright, they have a machine that can communicate instantly over any distance! Wainwright holds that he was communicating directly with Mr. James T Riley, who was in Paris! No doubt this is how Mr. Slate could direct attacks against us from the comfort of his Sudan base, and obtain news from his agents worldwide.
Wainwright made only two slight mistakes. The first was to allow young Mr. Tennant to play with the equipment. This alerted Prometheus agents in "Venetica", who then proceeded to activate a self destruct mechanism that reduced the entire base to ashes. Which once more reinforces the rules against bringing civilians on missions, but I suppose we can only take what we are given. Once the ashes cool down, I suppose some of your forensic experts will have to go there with a fine sieve and find out the details about this mysterious device.
The second mistake was to assume that the evildoers were in Venice. Even an honorary Doctor such as myself would know that Venetica is not Venice, but Vyatka - Kirov as it is now known. It seems someone is going to visit Russia. Still, we now have a list of cities to scour for Prometheus presence, which is excellent progress.
This leaves us, of course, with one important question: the operators of the electrical device. Where are they now? Why weren't they there? What were their last orders? Where are they going, and what are they going to do once they get there? I have a sinking feeling that the answers may well be close to home. But I have already doubled the guards. Let's hope that whatever Prometheus throws at us, we can weather.
And now I think it is my duty to persuade the parents of Miss Carrie StJohn to see sense and drop the charges against Andrew. Malcolm already tried once and failed. We can but hope.
Yours,
Godfrey
Dear Winston,
Miss Carrie StJohn has earnt herself an easy essay question for the next History semester. I had a meeting with her parents and they brought her, no doubt to look dejected and devastated, and frightened of her life on the same University grounds as the Beast of Algernon. This turned out to be a miscalculation on the parents' behalf. Allow me to expand.
When the StJohns came in, Carrie looked pitiful. Eyes dull, cradling her arm in a sling. Her mother had her hands on her shoulders, and directed her to a chair.
"Good morning," I said. "Please sit down."
Mr. StJohn only nodded, Mrs. StJohn said nothing. They took the chairs offered, refused offers of tea or coffee, and adopted a hostile demeanor.
"Sir," said Mr. StJohn. "Why are we having a meeting with a History teacher, rather than someone with the power to negotiate?"
Well, I can tell you, Winston, I was thoroughly intimidated. It is only my years of Secret Services training the allowed me to continue.
"I am not only a History teacher, Sir. I am also the Head of Security."
"Well, that's a bit of a shambles then, isn't it?" said Mrs. StJohn. "Just look at my daughter!"
I did. She looked like she did not want to be here, but had been convinced somehow.
"I've had my share of broken bones, Mrs. StJohn. I know the feeling. I wish her a speedy recovery."
"If you had done your job, and kept that monster contained, she wouldn't need to recover."
"That, Mrs. StJohn, is where I must differ. If our Founder's grandson Andrew Parsons had not acted as he did, events might have taken a much darker and tragic turn than they already have."
"What do you mean?"
I reached into my desk and pulled out two pieces of paper I'd prepared. "I am willing to put at your disposal certain facts that Chancellor Munroe was not at liberty to discuss. But those facts must not leave these four walls. I will need you to sign this agreement that you will not do so, except as required by Law and so forth, and so forth."
Mr. StJohn bent forward. "What is this, Dr..."
"Pike," I said. "Godfrey Pike." It is so nice when people actually listen to you, Winston. At least when I am teaching, not listening will cost you points on your exam. "This is a standard non-disclosure agreement. In essence, if you ever disclose what I am about to tell you, there will be legal ramifications."
"We are not signing anything," said Mrs. StJohn.
I raised my hands. "That is at your option. But if you don't, then I cannot explain to you why any lawsuit you care to bring against Algernon University will evaporate like dew in the morning. I am very sorry, but your daughter has been caught up in a matter of State security. And that is all I can tell you, unless I have your signed agreement not to discuss it."
State Security, Winston. Magic words. Things that affect the safety of our beloved nation. I think Prometheus qualifies. Mr. StJohn picked up the paper and read it. He looked back up at me.
"This will not prevent us from bringing up matters in the court case?"
"No. Though any court case will be behind closed doors, and will not be on the public record."
Mr. StJohn pulled out a fountain pen and signed both copies of the document. He passed the papers to his wife.
"Sign it, Mildred. Let's get this matter behind us."
Mrs. StJohn glared at me. "Don't think for a moment that this will prevent us from doing right by our little girl." With an angry gesture, she signed her name.
"Carrie as well, please."
"She's underage," said Mr. StJohn. "And furthermore, she cannot hold a pen."
Carrie looked up. "Yes I can, Father."
"Darling, I don't want you to sign things you don't understand."
"Be quiet about anything we discuss in here, or else. Correct, Dr. Pike?"
I had to smile. "Precisely so."
"Right." Carrie picked up the pen in her plastered-up hand, and signed. Not quite as legibly as usual, but quite legal.
"Thank you, Carrie," I said. "Now all we need is a witness. Just a moment." I walked to the door, and let Miss Sunderland in.
"Miss Sunderland, do you recognise these people?"
Miss Sunderland looked at the StJohn family.
"I do," she said, in a voice that would have frozen the Sun.
"Please?"
Miss Sunderland picked up the pen and signed, she gave a little nod, turned round, and left. I gathered up the paper, gave one of the copies to Mr. StJohn.
"Well then," I said. "I'm afraid I have to tell you that there have been attempts to abduct Mr. Parsons at gunpoint, by an organisation unknown. At great personal risk, Mr. Parsons disarmed the individual and detained him till the porters could take him away. Through Andrew's actions, we have learnt things about this organisation that we might never have otherwise."
"Abduct him?" Mrs. StJohn scoffed. "I find that very hard to believe. Why would anyone want to have him? What use is he?"
"Mum..." said Carrie, but her mother ignored her.
"Andrew Parsons has one of the most fertile minds in civil engineering today," I said. "He is able to create in his mind the most complex pieces of machinery, and then build them with his own hands. He has set his mind to steam turbines, armoured vehicles, lifting mechanisms, navigational aids for airships, water pumps, repeating rifles, wind turbines. And all of his inventions work as soon as he assembles them. There is no engineer like him in all of Britain, even in the world. Combined with his total lack of interest in all things worldly, that makes him the perfect accessory for all manner of unsavoury organisations."
"Do you count this University as one of those organisations?" said Mrs. StJohn. "Because the way you treat your students here..."
With a sudden violent motion, Carrie leapt to her feet.
"Mum, stop!" She shouted. "Do you realise what happened when you had Andrew arrested? Everybody here hates me now because of what you did to him. He didn't do anything wrong! He's just big and I got in the way. He didn't even see me!" She took her arm out of the sling. "Do you see this? That's his signature there! He came to see me in the hospital, and he apologised, and then he sat with me and talked about physics for an hour!" Carrie took a deep breath. "There is this thing I'd tried for days to get into my head. Pressure. Temperature. Volume. Flint just showed me the formula, and that was it. I would never have gotten it, and Flint told me that maybe I just wasn't meant to understand it! Andrew didn't just give me a formula, he told me what was going on! How the molecules bump into each other and heat up, how heat makes water molecules move faster, and then I understood! I didn't even have to write it down, because I got it!" Carrie slammed her plastered fist on my table. "I want to learn from him, and you want to have him thrown out. Please Mum, Dad. Stop this. It was an accident." She looked at the floor. "It was just an accident."
"We'll be able to afford a much better school than this, darling."
"And after that, another? And another? This is where I want to be, mum. I'm tired of going from one place to another."
"You said they were being nasty to you. Wouldn't it be nice to start over?"
"No! No more! I'll make up with my friends here. Because you are not going to sue my school! If you try, Mother, I will make sure that you fail. I will tell the bloody truth! It was an accident."
Mrs. StJohn gave me a stare like a thousand suns. "You have set my very own daughter against me. I'll..."
"Mildred!"
Mr. StJohn took his wife by the arm, looked at me. "Excuse us a moment?"
They walked to the other end of the room, and started whispering at each other. I looked at Carrie. She saw me looking at her, and gave me an uncertain smile. She opened her mouth to say something, but I put my finger on my lips. On the other end of the room, Mildred StJohn hissed something unladylike at her husband, turned round and walked out, slamming the door behind her. Mr. StJohn took a moment to compose himself, then came back to Carrie.
"Sweetheart?"
"Dad?"
"Are you sure you want to stay here? With the danger? And the rest of the students?"
Father and daughter looked into each other's eyes for a moment. Then Carrie nodded quietly.
"Yes."
Mr. StJohn put his arms round his daughter.
"We love you very much, sweetheart. I'll talk it through with your mother."
"She's mad... angry."
"She's been before." Mr. StJohn looked at me. "Sir, given the circumstances, I don't think we need to pursue this any further. I'll instruct my solicitors."
"Thank you Sir," I said.
Mr. StJohn left, leaving me with Carrie. I stepped round my desk and put my hand on her shoulder.
"Come on. The Rifle Club is going to unveil the trophy."
Carrie drew a sleeve across her eyes, looked at me.
"They said Jocelyn only hit bullseyes the entire tournament. Is that really true?"
"Yes. Amazing but true."
"Good grief. I'm going to need to step up my game, then."
"Once you get that cast off, the Brownings are all yours."
And so, Winston, that particular genie was put back in its bottle. I'm sure Parsons will never know how close he came to ruin. I will recommend him as a tutor to young Carrie StJohn.
Yours,
Dr. Godfrey Pike.
Dear Winston,
Thank you for your reports concerning the ruins of the apparatus found in the London basement in Hackney, and the report from our Khartoum agents.That was very fast, and I much appreciate it. I must confess that the details escape me completely, but never fear, I am in a place of Learning and Knowledge, and I will find someone who does understand. You say that this machine operates on principles of electricity and magnetism. I have played with magnets like every other boy, and spent many a day fishing for coins underneath one of the London bridges. But a magnet loses its potency over a distance of mere inches. Can this really be what enables Slate to make clocks move and fires ignite over a continent away? The mind boggles.
It would seem that the Eagle's nest is well and truly empty of its eggs. From the report, it would seem that there were a number of explosions not caused by our enthusiastic friends of the Khartoum airfleet. Specifically, in rooms containing nothing but twisted bits of metal. I think we may assume that those were the long-distance message facilities, and maybe more. Why would an egotistical maniac like Mr, no Magister Slate bother to destroy his equipment? Not the actions of a man who knows his time has come, Winston. I am turning to the opinion that the Magister flew the nest before its destruction, perhaps even before the attack. Which would mean that we are not safe yet. In fact, Mr. Slate might leave instructions to be carried out after his death. He looks the type.
We are cautiously optimistic that with the destruction of their Sudanese base, we have given Prometheus something more important to think about than getting rid of our kind and gentle eggheads and airship operators. But I do see a certain lack of finality, Winston. I would not shed a single tear to learn that Magister Slate is no longer in the land of the living, but I lack a corpse. I want certainty, and that certainty has been buried under tons of rock where I cannot get at it. I do wish our Arab acquaintances had kept their heads slightly cooler. It cannot be helped, Winston. If he survived, no doubt he will make his presence felt.
It may please you to know that young Mr. Wainwright has finally managed to establish some kind of rapport with the Moghadam family. Poor Wainwright had to sift through some rather disturbing documents in the presence of a large number of dead women and children. You and I both know what that can do to one's faith in Humanity, Winston. It comes with the job I suppose. He requested leave to visit his mother in Manchester. He will be back in a few days, replete with motherly love and chicken soup. I envy him, Winston. Old age robs us of comforts like these.
Mr. Ahmad Moghadam sent Wainwright a letter, which I have steamed open like an old granny. Ahmad Moghadam extends his thanks for the assistance rendered at the Belian-Ibelin mine, and cordially invites him for coffee, should he find himself in Khartoum. Which is not a bad turn for an ignorant Kafir such as he. And we will make use of it, Winston. I want more information. More travel to the tropics for him when he returns.
I am feeling a good deal better about our progress than a month ago. We have a good number of puzzle pieces, an edge, and at least two corners. The rest will no doubt yield to serious enquiry.
It seems that the destruction of their London and Sudan bases has somewhat dampened Prometheus' enthusiasm for sending their evildoers to attack us. But never for a moment do I believe that we have seen the last of them, Winston. The house in Hackney was easily large enough for a whole nest of them. Where on Earth are they? What rough beasts are slouching towards Ipswich at this moment? I hate loose ends, especially if those loose ends can do us serious harm.
Another loose end is Hammond's expedition. They died of, effectively, madness induced by claviceps purpurea. Who slipped that into their food supply? Why did they do it? I cannot even speculate.
Still, we will be on our guard. Let them come! We will be ready for them when they re-emerge!
Yours,
Godfrey.
Alexandra Tennant: It is all in the mind
Revels and Tall Tales - In the spirit it is given - Save us from ourselves - Replacement parts - Welcoming the stranger - In the arms of Morpheus
Vocational guidance
Linda Davenport reporting
It's that time of year again where the Faculty feels moved to ask us what we want to do with the rest of our lives, whether we want to profit Society by becoming Alchemists, Herbologists, Physicians, Engineers, Literature scholars, Historians, Politicians, or alternatively, run away with a circus. Given the talent shown by our faculty to make even the most exciting subjects seem boring, your correspondent is seriously considering the last option. When asked what one has done today, who would pass up the opportunity to say; "Today I nearly died on the flying trapeze, and then I carried away the manure of lions and elephants?"
But be that as it may, every department will be putting forward its best case for enticing students to join their curriculum. I suggest that any student enjoy the opportunity to mark the faculty for a change.
"I'm gonna wheel you there, and there's nothing you can do about it."
"Brenda... please."
Brenda turned the wheelchair round to look me in the eye, while pushing me backwards.
"Look, Tennant. They're your friends. Sisters in arms even. If you're gonna wait till your face looks pretty again, you'll never see them again. And you'll miss the booze-up. They're your platoon. You're the captain. Go see them."
I looked down to my knees. Brenda spun me round again. She had a flair for annoying people. Most annoyingly, she was right. I could not stay away. I had to tell the Algernon Rifle Club how proud I was of them.
"Booze is not allowed in the girls' dorm," I said. "We'll have to revel with cups of tea."
"Tea? What kind of backward country is this? Are you gonna get drunk on biscuits?"
"Needs must," I said.
There was a clinking noise, and the next moment, a bottle of Irish Whiskey was floating in front of me.
"Never fear, my uncivilised sister. I've got your six."
"Brenda. You are not going to get my girls drunk on Irish rotgut."
Brenda laughed. "Just you watch me."
The door to the girls' dorm was ajar. I raised my right leg and kicked it open. The pain in my knee flashed through my whole body, but I kept my face straight, just to see if I could.
I could.
All eyes inside the room turned towards me, and then there were cheers. Brenda wheeled me into the middle of the room. I looked at all the faces. Anna. Christa. Jocelyn, Florence, Linda, Rina. I tried shaking hands with all of them at the same time, speechless, with a lump in my throat. How stupid it seemed to me now to try and stay away from them. I looked round. Someone was missing.
"Where's Carrie?"
"Don't know," said Anna. "Probably suing the school for not holding an umbrella over her head. Her hair got wet!"
"Carrie had Andrew arrested? What madness is this?"
"There was a bit of a fracas in the hallway.," said Rina. "Andrew Parsons ran into her and she fell."
"Fracas," I said. Rina was turning into quite the reporter.
"Yeah. This strange man came running out of the Cavern, with Mr. Parsons behind. God, he was angry! Who knows, maybe the guy put a spanner back in the wrong place or something. We all scatter, but Carrie's reading something, and she doesn't notice. So Mr. Parsons runs straight through her, Carrie goes flying, she lands awkwardly, and breaks her wrist. He visits her in the infirmary, apologises, everything seems fine, and then she sues the school! Stupid girl."
"She did?" I said. "Isn't that the job of her parents?"
"They came visiting, she told her tale of woe, and now they're trying to put Mr. Parsons in jail and to get a large sum of money."
"Oh come on! Carrie wouldn't, surely?"
"It's happened before," said Linda. "I did a little digging and she left her previous school under similar circumstances. And maybe the one before that, but I couldn't confirm that."
"Nothing like a big fat settlement to bring out the best in people," said Brenda.
"Oh I'm so sorry, I'm forgetting my manners. We haven't been formally introduced." Linda held out her hand. "Linda Davenport. How do you do."
"We haven't been formally introduced? How can you even see me?" Brenda shook Linda's hand, then waved. "Hi everyone. I'm Brenda. Former US Marine, now personal slave to Miss Alexandra Tennant."
"Ah. You're an American," said Christa, as though that explained everything.
"Mostly, but let's not get into that."
"What's the other part?" said Anna.
"You got a problem with my accent, Sister? I said let's not discuss that."
"Why would you be ashamed of your ancestry?"
I could see the look in Brenda's eyes, and opened my mouth to change the subject, but at that point there was a knock on the door. The pause before it opened indicated that the visitor was male. If you are going to intrude on a female domain, at least give those inside the chance to cover up and stop any secret feminine rituals. The door opened, and slowly, hesitantly, Carrie StJohn came in, followed by Dr. Pike.
"Well Carrie, I'll leave you here. Thank you once more for clearing up those misunderstandings. I'm sure Andrew will appreciate it."
I couldn't help noticing a certain theatrical quality to his voice, as if he was speaking to more people than just Carrie.
"Ah. Miss Tennant." Pike gave me a little meaningful look. "Celebrating the Rifle Club's recent victory, I see? Well, I'll leave you to it. Good night."
He walked out of the door, leaving Carrie standing in a pool of darkness. I pointed at Carrie's arm.
"I heard what happened. How are you?"
Carrie stared at my face, the wheelchair. She hesitated.
"I fell," I said. "Show me your arm. Is that Andrew's signature?"
"It... it is," said Carrie.
"Would you like mine as well?"
Carrie looked into my eyes. A while ago, before Lady I left for Sudan, she had confessed to having certain feelings towards me, but told me not to worry, she wouldn't act upon them. She gave me a hesitant little smile, growing more solid as I smiled back at her.
"Yes please."
I looked round. "Does anyone have a pen?"
There were a few looks round the group, until finally, Rina indicated that she might have such a thing. She came over and handed it to me, not looking at Carrie. I found an empty spot somewhere among the names of all the girls present here, and signed my name. I looked at it for a few moments. That signature might last longer than I would. I forced my mind back to more pleasant places. I looked up at Carrie.
"There," I said.
"Thank you," said Carrie.
A long awkward silence fell. Carrie looked at the faces of her friends, trying to see if they were still her friends. Some looked away. Some sneered. Some showed nothing in their eyes.
Jocelyn got up, walked over to Carrie.
"So you're not going to sue Mr. Parsons then?"
"I never wanted to," said Carrie, with a sigh. "Please believe me. My mother gets..."
"Crazy?"
"Protective."
"You could have bought a sweet rifle with the money."
"Yeah."
There was a long silent moment. Carrie and Jocelyn looked at each other.
"I need you at the Club," said Jocelyn. "For some competition. None of these peasants can shoot straight."
"You hit nothing but bullseyes the entire tournament? Really?"
Jocelyn put a hand on Carrie's shoulder and took her to a chair, sat down next to her.
"Just don't ask me to do it again. It was so weird. Pike had me pretend to be a vampire to put the wind up the other team, and part of being..." Jocelyn tossed her hair back. "Lady Jocelyn d'Vale, was that she never misses. So I didn't. Almost like I was someone else."
Florence laughed. "Maybe next time, you can pretend to be rich. Buy us all some nice clothes."
Brenda nudged me. "Is it time to break out the booze yet?"
"It's always time to break out the booze," said Christa. "As long as there's no bloody Profs here."
"Good," said Brenda, reached under my wheelchair and produced one of the bottles of irish Whiskey she'd shown me earlier. She twisted off the cork, and threw it out of the open window. "Who of you girls is gonna help me?"
"Is that... whiskey?" said Florence.
"Sure is. Original Glen Yechh. From the Emerald Isle."
"No thank you," said Florence. "It's not very ladylike."
Brenda raised her eyebrows. "It's not supposed to be ladylike, it's supposed to get you drunk!"
"We could put it in coffee or tea," said Linda, looking at the bottle. "It's not like it's special reserve single malt older than we are."
Brenda turned to me. "You Brits are mad. You are going to revel with tea if it's the last thing you do."
"Told you," I said.
Jocelyn and Carrie set about making big pots of tea and coffee. Soon, we were having tea like good little schoolgirls should. My tea contained a half-dose of morphia, just enough to make the pain in my knees bearable without sending me off into the clouds. Brenda's tea contained no tea.
Linda, smelling a story even through the tea vapours, took out her little black notebook and sat down next to Brenda.
"You were in the Army? You were a soldier?"
"No, I wasn't! I was in the Marines. Marines can beat the crap out of Army soldiers, the way soldiers can beat the crap out of civilians."
"Um. Sorry," said Linda. She wrote down the word 'Marine' and underlined it. "But there aren't many women Marines, are there?"
Brenda waggled her hand. "Getting better, but ain't no denying I'm pretty rare."
"So how's that work? You weren't in an all-women platoon were you?"
"Nope. When you become a Marine, something happens to you. You stop being a woman. You stop being black. You stop being white. You stop being some piece of trash that's only there to keep himself from going to jail. You all become Green. Some of 'em a bit darker green than others, and some have green bumps on their chests, but when push comes to shove, all that counts is if you can keep your brothers alive."
I watched Linda scribble in her notebook. Green. "So you never got any grief for being a woman?"
"Oh god, all the time! I've had Dogs tell me exactly what they wanted to do with my tits. Everybody is always ragging on each other. Anything that sticks out, you use it. If you can't take that, stay the hell out of the Corps. But I'll tell you one thing. If any bastard would really have tried something with me, my brothers would have kicked every colour of shit out of 'em."
"Hmm." Linda made a few more notes. "Would you recommend it to any woman?"
"Hell no! If you need recommending, you're not good enough. If there's one thing that you shouldn't need to be told, it's that you pull your weight. I'm never gonna be as strong as the strongest, that's a plain fact, but I sure as hell ain't gonna be the weakest. That's why I'm training these!"
Brenda pulled up her sleeve and flexed her bicep. There was an awed hush. Finally Carrie spoke up.
"They let you have tattoos like that in the Arm- sorry, Marines?"
"Not with the new regs, but I ain't going back anyway."
Carrie moved a bit closer. "What is that stuff?"
"That? Planets and moons. Other arm is fossils."
"Oo!" said Carrie. "Can I see?"
"That's what they're there for."
For the next ten minutes or so, I was treated to the sight of Former United States Marine Brenda Lee sitting on a chair, bare arms out, while a small flock of girls were pointing at the pictures and making appreciative comments.
Linda, ever the reporter, continued her interview. "Are women held to the same standards in the Marines as the men?"
"Pretty much," said Brenda. "We get a little bit of leeway, but not much. Can't expect the Enemy to put in a low section of wall for the girls. But at least we can shoot as straight as the boys."
"Speaking of which," said Rina. "Shouldn't we have invited Nigel to the party? He did as much as the rest of you."
"No men in the dormitories," said Anna. "That's the rules."
"We could have gone to the canteen," said Florence.
"Not with this," said Jocelyn. She poured a bit of whiskey into her coffee, considered, added a little more. She had a rather charming blush on her cheeks. "And anyway, we already had a party."
"So that's where you went!" said Florence. "I thought you were gone too long for a bath. So you met Nige for a little snogging? Hang on. Make that a lot of snogging. You were gone for hours!"
Jocelyn looked at Florence, took another swig of coffee. Her eyes gleamed. "We did more than snog."
"More?"
Rina slapped her hand on the table. "You let him look at your baps!"
"Well, that couldn't have taken more than ten seconds," said Christa. "What did you do the rest of the time?"
Jocelyn grabbed a seat pillow and threw it at Christa. "They'll grow bigger yet, just you wait! And we did more than look."
"You let him feel your baps!" said Florence. "You hussy!"
Jocelyn put her elbows on the table, put her chin on her hands, grinning at Florence. "Keep. Going."
"You didn't!" Florence's voice lowered to a whisper. "You weren't having a bath, you were..."
Jocelyn raised a finger. "We did have a bath. Good clean fun."
"You and Nigel? In the bath? Together?"
"Yep. He did my back."
"Without your clothes on?!"
"No, we kept our clothes on, like we always do in the bath." Jocelyn tossed back her coffee. "Of course with no clothes on."
"Jocelyn." Linda looked at her over her glasses. "You didn't let him, well, into you, did you?"
Jocelyn snorted. "I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid! Fingers only. But oh my, those fingers. He just kept going on and on, for hours, so I had to go on and on too. I nearly fainted in the end, and still."
Florence gave Jocelyn a good long hard look, then pointed a finger in her face.
"You're making that up."
Jocelyn gave Florence an enigmatic smile. "Maybe. Then again, maybe not."
"That's rape," said Anna.
Brenda snapped round to her. "No it isn't."
Jocelyn's eyes grew large. "No it isn't!"
Anna looked down on Jocelyn. "Yes it was. You didn't want to go on, did you? You just said so. And still, he had his fingers inside of you. That's penetration without consent. You were raped."
"Don't be an idiot," said Brenda. A worrying change had come over her voice, it sounded low, almost a whisper, but still managed to be very very clear. "He was holding her with literally one finger. All she had to do to stop him was say: Hey buddy? Stop doing that. Or get out of the damn bath, and it would all be over, thanks for the memories."
"He should have asked her before continuing to grope her genitals."
"I made it up," said Jocelyn, in a small voice that nobody seemed to hear.
"She also had her hands on his tackle," said Brenda. "Did she ask him with every stroke whether it was permitted to go on? Was she raping him?"
This would have been a very good time for Anna to shut her mouth, but she didn't. "Pff. All rapists are men. You can't rape a man."
Brenda slammed her fist onto the table making all the cups jump up. "That boy was just doing his stinking best to make his friend happy!"
"Brenda," I said.
She didn't listen. "There's women out there, who were punched in the face, kicked, beaten, until they stopped resisting, then thrown on the ground and used by god knows how many bastards."
"Brenda!"
"And I've seen the poor devils, bleeding from their buttholes, because someone said they stole some bits of useless goddamn rock, but really because some sick bastard wanted to have some fun with them." She pointed a finger right between Anna's eyes. "And you think that's the same as someone who doesn't stop fingering his girlfriend quick enough? You just went and pissed in all of their faces!"
I gave an angry shout at the top of my voice. "Lee!"
She turned round to me, eyes glowing with anger. I looked back at her.
"Please..."
Brenda growled, stomped off. The door slammed.
"Well, I never!" said Anna.
I took a breath to give her my opinion, but Jocelyn stepped up, put her hand on my arm. Her dark eyes were filled with tears.
"I was having you on," she said. Her voice sounded unsteady. She looked at her feet. "We just found a quiet place, and... kissed. For hours. He had his hand under my shirt, but that's all. I loved it. Every minute. Nigel wouldn't hurt me." She looked up at me. "You believe me, don't you?"
I put my hands on her face. "Yes. Yes, I believe you."
"I want to go to sleep," said Jocelyn. "And in the morning, none of this has happened." She glared at Anna. "Nothing, you understand? Nothing!"
Jocelyn turned round, walked to her bed, dropped her clothes on the floor, and pulled the blankets over her. I sighed.
"I think I'd better go to sleep as well. My legs are hurting."
I wheeled myself out of the door, and rolled in the direction of the front door. I found Brenda sitting on the floor against the wall, staring at nothing. She looked up at me.
"If you think I'm gonna apologise to that little arrogant shit, you've got another thing coming."
"She'll live," I said.
I put the brakes on, and got out of the wheelchair. With a little effort, I sat down next to her. I touched her shoulder and she pushed my hand away. I took a deep breath.
"Damn it, Soldier. If you're bleeding where we can't see, tell us."
Brenda gave me a look, then went back to staring ahead of her.
"I keep telling you damn Limeys. I'm not a goddamn soldier, I'm a goddamn Marine."
"If you need something, anything, you only have to ask. You saved my life, back in Sudan."
"No I didn't," said Brenda.
"You led Carl to me, and you both freed me and brought me back to Lady I. If you hadn't, I would have bled to death."
"No you wouldn't have," said Brenda. "Hester Klemm wasn't done with you yet. She was waiting for you to pass out. Soon as you did, she would have stopped the bleeding. You'd have woken up in a hospital bed. And I would've been there. Food. Water. Medicine. Cleaned you up." Her voice sounded dull, flat. "And then, just when you'd think I was your only friend in that stinking hell-hole, you'd be strapped down, and cut to pieces. Inch by inch. She told me exactly how to do it. Keep you alive for as long as possible."
I tried to speak, but my mouth had dried up. I coughed.
"Do you mean that she was going to... make you do it?"
Brenda turned round to me, looked me in the eye.
"Yes."
She didn't have to say what would have happened to her if she'd refused. Slate would have made an example of her, to show others the price of disobedience. Or maybe he would have shown her mutilated body to his followers, to show them what 'we' had done to her. Even if she had refused, it would not have saved me.
"They thought I was getting too friendly with you. They didn't like me telling you about the Airship Aquila. Klemm wanted to test my loyalty."
There was only one question. I didn't want to ask her, but I could not leave it unasked.
"Would you have done it?"
Brenda closed her eyes. For three long slow breaths, she didn't move at all. Then, she turned her eyes to me.
"I don't have to answer that question," she said. "I don't have to answer it because of that brother of yours. I'll bear his goddamn babies for that."
We sat next to each other for a few minutes, not saying anything. It hadn't happened. The cup had passed her by. Finally, we looked at each other. I reached out, touched her shoulder.
"We all have to do what we need to to stay alive."
Brenda only nodded. She put her hand on mine.
"Let's get you home," she said.
She pushed herself to her feet, and picked me up as though I were a child. She put me in the wheelchair and we set off. We didn't speak a word all the way to the gangplank, and inside Lady I, where Brenda parked the wheelchair next to the door, then carried me to my bed. I took off my clothes, took a dose of medicine, with Brenda watching over me. Just before I floated away into the arms of Morpheus, I could hear her jump into the top bunk.
"Good night, Brenda," I said, and then I fell asleep.
The next morning, just after breakfast, we had two visitors, Andrew Parsons and Miss Felicia. Andrew was carrying a box, maybe a bit larger than a shoe box. Miss Felicia pointed him at the bench of our mess hall table, and they sat down. Andrew pushed the box over to me and opened it. Inside were two bright shining objects.
"These are the Replacement Knees, Mark One," said Andrew. "Made from Chromium steel. The joints can bend from an angle of minus fifteen to one hundred thirty five degrees. The lateral rotation is twelve degrees, which I took from the rotational range of my own knee."
I stared at the things while Andrew rattled off the specifications. Up until this moment, the thought that I might get new knees had seemed almost like a fairytale to me. Now, they were before me. I looked at Andrew.
"May I?"
Andrew frowned.
"Yes you may," said Miss Felicia, before Andrew could ask what I meant.
I took out one of the knees. There were two hollow ends, designed to go over my bones. There were counter-sunk holes for screws with which to fasten the ends. It all looked so mechanical. Rather than bandages, poultices, drops of medicine, someone would take a screwdriver to my body. The actual screws were in a small linen bag, also provided. I bent, straightened, turned the joint. The movement was smooth, flawless. They were perfect. Still the idea that Dr. Singh would saw out my own knee, then put this thing in to replace it, filled me with a sudden dread. My father's leg was also a work of engineering, but he could take it off. This thing would be part of me, forever. Improving on God's work. I put the knee back in the box.
"Thank you Andrew," I said. "These are beautiful."
"They conform to specifications. I cannot fit the knees to your legs," said Andrew. "I am not allowed to work on people. Dr. Singh and Dr. Bernhardt will do that."
"Good." I smiled at Andrew, and he looked away. "You are fast becoming our main source of movement. Lady I's engines, Father's leg, and now this. If you ever need to fly anywhere, Andrew, Lady I is at your disposal."
"I am not allowed to leave University grounds, except when accompanied by Miss Felicia."
"She is welcome to join you on board," I said.
Miss Felicia laughed. "I could do with a little trip to Paris. I've been meaning to go to Montmartre and have my portrait painted. Well, if you have finished admiring your knees, we'll be going."
"The Replacement Knees, Mark One, need to be put in the sterilisation autoclave prior to fitting," said Andrew. "They will be heated with high pressure steam to a temperature of two hundred degrees Celsius to remove unwanted impurities and organisms. The metal can withstand a temperature in excess of fifteen hundred degrees Celsius."
"I will make sure never to exceed that temperature once the knees are fitted," I said.
Andrew frowned. "Human tissue and bones cannot withstand even..."
"Miss Tennant is joking, Andrew," said Miss Felicia.
Andrew gave a little nod. He closed the box, got up, held out his hand. My hand disappeared in his. With the leaving rituals complete, he turned round and walked out without another word. Miss Felicia watched him go, smiled at me.
"I wish you the best of luck, Miss Tennant. Andrew likes you."
"Thank you, Miss Sunderland. If everything goes right, I'll take him for a long walk."
"What, in the woods or some other non-metallic place?" Miss Felicia got up, shook my hand. "Take him for a ride in your airship instead."
"I will."
It was time to go to the infirmary, and from there, the only way back led through the operating theatre. This being a University, there would be spectators. I would not die alone, at least. I was sitting in my wheelchair by the starboard door. Carl and Fatin stood on my left, Father on my right. Brenda stood behind me, hands on the chair. I looked ahead, trying to keep a straight face. I had made my will, a simple matter as I had few Earthly possessions. I had walked onto the bridge once more, put my hand on our Lady's steering wheel, said goodbye to my mother Iris, and to Itzel the Aztec priestess. All my instincts were screaming at me to turn round. My poor knees would heal themselves with time. I could take the pain. I closed my eyes a moment, then opened them, looking straight ahead. I would come back either healed, or not at all.
"Let's go," I said.
Brenda gave me a push, held on to me as I rolled down the gangplank. It took us only a minute or two to reach the door of the medical faculty. Brenda stopped, looked over my shoulder.
"Get out of the way, you little sod!"
I looked, and in the middle of the ramp up to the doors lay a small black, ginger, and white cat. It opened an eye, looked at us and then continued its snooze.
"Shoo!"
Brenda pushed the chair forward a little. The cat was completely unimpressed. It swished its tail, but otherwise didn't move an inch.
"I'll turn you into a bloody splat, see if I don't."
The cat didn't even dignify that with an answer. Brenda gave a kind of grunt, walked round and picked it up in her arms, surprisingly gently.
"Hello Stranger," she said. "Mind if we pass through?"
She scratched the cat between the ears until it started to purr. Then, she put it down behind the wheelchair and started to push me up the ramp. The cat rubbed itself up against her leg, still purring.
"Get out of here, you little furball, I'll step on you!"
Brenda pushed me into the building. When I looked over my shoulder, I could see the cat back in its original place in the sun.
Dr. Bernhardt was waiting for us in one of the small private wards. All male and non-medical persons were sent out of the room, leaving the doctor, me, Fatin, and Brenda. I changed into the traditional ugly hospital gown and was put in the bed. The operation would take place tomorrow morning, and I was to have nothing to eat at all, and only little to drink. It was important that I should relax, so I was given a combination of valerian root and pain medication stronger even than my drops of Morphia. I was floating in a warm sea of clean linen, looking at the world from inside a cloud. Fatin sat on my side, singing to me in her low gentle voice. Brenda paced up and down the room, not quite knowing what to do with herself.
"Brenda?"
"What?"
"I've been stupid and forgotten my diary. I need to write a few more things."
"And now I have to go and get it?"
"Please?"
"The Prussians have a saying. Was man im Haupt nicht hat, muß man im Beine haben. Only you got no legs, and no head."
"Would you?"
"Sure," said Brenda, walking out. "That's what I'm here for, ain't I? Carrying your things after you. Back in a minute."
Fatin waited till the door closed behind her, then laughed. "She is like Odawaa when Kinsi asks him to fetch her things for her. I like her. I am glad she is with us."
"She has been hurt," I said.
"Yes. When you are better, then I will try to sing away her pain as well."
I looked at her, her brown eyes, dark brown face, large mass of jet-black curls. We could not be more different if we tried, and still here we were.
"Maybe you can teach me that song, and I can sing it when someone needs it."
Fatin took my hand, gently ran her fingers over my arm.
"First, you get better. Then, you will know your own song." She put her head on my shoulder. "You have had much pain. Your song will be much stronger than mine."
The door opened, and Margaret poked her head round.
"Yoo hoo! Miss Tennant? Are you decent? Can I come in?"
"No more decent than I can help, and you can always come in, Margaret."
"Oh good," said Margaret.
The door opened wide and she and all the founding members of the Algernon Rifle Club came pouring in. They gathered round my bed. There were even flowers, which was impressive.
"They never told us how bad your legs were," said Nigel. "Are you really going to have legs of steel?"
"Just my knees," I said.
"You're going to run faster than anyone," said Bertram the Other Boy. "Steam engines for legs!"
"I'll be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound," I said, and giggled in a way I hope was caused mostly by the medicine. "Kick a football all the way to London!"
"You will be put under the Aether," said Florence, awe in her voice.
"Yes," I said. "Don't think too much of it. It is only a very deep sleep. I wouldn't want to be awake when they saw through my bones."
"Urgh," said Florence.
"They're going to do it in the operating theatre," said Linda. "People will be able to watch them do it."
"Is the Press going to be there?"
Rina shook her head. "Not me! I get queasy when I prick my finger! It would be a very short article."
"I'll take this one," said Linda. "And I'm going to do one on your Marine friend. This week's Clarion is going to be a fat one." Linda moved a bit closer. "You can read it when this is done."
"I will," I said, leaning back into the pillows. The world round me seemed to grow smaller.
Margaret gave me a look, then patted my shoulder.
"You get some sleep, dear. We'll be thinking about you. Come on, people. Let's go."
Fatin got up from her chair.
"I will come back in the morning," she said. "Before they make you better."
I smiled, but couldn't speak. Everybody walked out of the room, and I closed my eyes. There was a little cough. I opened my eyes.
"Carrie?"
She bent over me, looked at me.
"Could you close your eyes for a second, please?"
I did. The next moment, I felt her lips on mine, soft, gentle. When I opened my eyes, she was standing there, looking at her feet.
"For luck," she said.
I touched her hand. "Thank you."
She smiled, then quickly turned round and left. I watched the door close behind her. At the very least, I would not die now without ever having kissed another woman. On that thought, I closed my eyes, and fell asleep.
This may be the last thing I will ever write. I have just been given a sleeping draught to relax my muscles. I have been washed clean by a friendly nurse. I have said goodbye to Father, Carl, Fatin, Margaret, Dr. Wadcroft, Brenda. They have wished me good luck and a speedy recovery. I will give these notes to Fatin to keep, and then there is nothing more to be done, nothing more to be said, until I am healed. If I should die, remember my good deeds. Forgive me my bad deeds.
I am ready.
Carl Tennant: The Battle of Algernon
Sleep, little sister - The first rumblings - Professor Wadcroft - Andrew Parsons - The Rifle Club goes to war - Professor Enderby - The last throes - Alexandra Tennant
In the presence of suffering
Rina Prescott reporting
This world can be a place of misery. Pessimistic voices might say that it is a well oiled machine for making people suffer. Sometimes, it is necessary, like a kite that cannot rise, except against the wind. We must suffer the boredom of study to become who we want to be. What is important to remember, is that suffering is relative to one's experience. A new-born babe suffers most grievously from the first slap on the bottom, and howls in anguish, when we would barely notice such a treatment later in life.
It is important to be aware of other people's suffering. Imagine a gathering of veteran soldiers, most of whom are missing limbs, blind, or are driven to insanity by the constant presence of death. Imagine some thoughtless person walking in and telling them that they know exactly what they feel, having read everything written about the last Franco-Prussian war, in the warmth and comfort of their own home. Such a person would be in for a severe beating, if only with words.
In such a situation, silence is the best policy.
It was early in the morning when Brenda, Father, Fatin, and I sat down in the front row of the operating theatre. Fatin had Raage in his sling. Father sat next to her. We would be able to see everything, be it to watch my sister Alexandra be healed, or to watch her die. Dr. Singh was a well known figure in his field. There was a large gathering of medical students, here to watch him at work. They didn't seem to recognise us, but they were eagerly discussing all the things that could go wrong in a large operation like this, from sudden heart failure to excessive doses of Ether. My sister would be put in a sleep deeper than any she had been in, one step up from death. A bell rung out three times, and a hush descended. A speaker came in, announcing the names of Dr. Bernhardt and Dr. Singh, and giving a summary of the things that were to be done. I sneered as he referred to my beloved sister only as 'The Patient', but then again, most of the people here did not know her, except maybe as 'The sniper lady' who had started a little social club involving rifles. I looked round to see Miss Linda Davenport and her little notebook. She smiled at me, crossed her fingers.
"Here she is," said Fatin.
I looked. Orderlies came in pushing an operating table where my sister was already sleeping. A mask was over her face, sending the deadly fumes into her lungs. Her legs were bare, coloured with the evidence of her ordeal, and lathered in antiseptic solution where the cuts were to be made. I looked at Father, who sat up straight on the bench, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. Dr. Singh and Dr. Bernhardt came in, wearing masks, holding up their gloved hands in front of them. Dr. Bernhardt would be guarding Alexandra's vital signs, while Dr. Singh would replace my poor sister's broken knees with unbreakable metal replacements. Assistants, similarly robed and masked, hovered round to hand Dr. Singh his tools.
Dr. Bernhardt put his stethoscope in his ears, and started listening to Alexandra's breath and heartbeat. Dr. Singh wasted not a moment. After a few words spoken with Dr. Bernhardt, he held out his hand and was given a sharp scalpel. I shivered as he, surely and quickly, cut into Alexandra's skin, folded it back, and stopped it bleeding with clamps. I could hear the whispers of the students round me, praising his technique, but I didn't care. To me, it looked like it would never come right again. I felt Fatin's hand in mine. She was singing softly, under her breath. Her eyes spoke of an unshakable faith that I envied her. Her smile filled me with hope.
It took Dr. Singh only a few minutes to expose Alexandra's bones. Behind me, two students were discussing how Dr. Singh had to choose what tissue to cut, and what to leave. I tried to shut them out. Without hesitating, Dr. Singh put down the scalpel, and called for the saw. He exchanged a look with Dr. Bernhardt, who listened carefully to Alexandra's heart, then nodded. I could not hear the noise of the saw, but my imagination was enough. I closed my eyes a moment, but then opened them again, feeling I owed it to my sister to witness every last moment of this. A thousand fears assailed me. Alexandra would wake up too soon, screaming in pain. The Doctors would try to wake her and fail. They would make a fatal mistake, and have to remove Alexandra's legs. My worst fear, though, was that Dr. Bernhardt would look up, frighened, then a few minutes of frantic activity would follow, and then the final resignation. The sheet would be pulled over Alexandra's lovely battered face, and they would wheel her out of the theatre, apologising to all present.
After a while, Dr. Singh put down the saw, was handed another scalpel, made a few more careful cuts, and then he pulled away Alexandra's knee joint. He held it up for a few moments, turning it in his hands, looking at it from all sides, then put it in a kidney-shaped dish held up for him by an assistant. He spoke a few words, and then another assistant handed Dr. Singh the shining metal object carefully crafted by Andrew Parsons. After exchanging a look with Dr. Bernhardt, he put his hand carefully on Alexandra's thigh and pushed the end onto her exposed femur. He nodded appreciatively at Dr. Bernhardt. A perfect fit. He took the prosthetic out again, and from a bowl plastered a paste into the end. I almost laughed. They were going to glue my sister's leg up! Next came a surgical drill, to drill pilot holes into my sister's very bones. I had done the very same thing as a ship's carpenter. Were we Humans to be reduced to mere pieces of handicraft?
Dr. Singh worked quickly. Every minute that Alexandra was under the Aether was a calculated risk. With confident, swift motions of his hands, he inserted Alexandra's bones in the place where they were meant to go, fixed them with screws, then rearranged the muscle and other tissues. He nodded at an assistant, and she began to close the horrific wounds and suture up the skin, so that Alexandra's leg almost looked normal again. Meanwhile, Dr. Singh, after another quick exchange with Dr. Bernhardt, started on Alexandra's other leg.
"Tennant." Brenda knocked her knuckles on my shoulder. She leaned over to me.
"Don't look. One of the students on my nine is carrying a bowie knife under his shirt. That's not a religious thing is it?"
A chill ran up my spine. I resisted looking. "I daresay it isn't."
Brenda nodded, then turned to Father. "Skipper?"
Father looked round. "Miss Lee?"
"We're under attack. You get Missus Tennant back to the Lady, and we'll get the bastards. Leave to your right."
Father gave her a look, then nodded. "Fatin, my dear, I fear we must leave. The Enemy is near."
Fatin looked at Father, then at me.
"I'm hunting," I said.
"Good hunting," said Fatin.
Father and Fatin got up, and she took his arm. Together they walked up to the exit, leaving me and Brenda.
"How many?" I said.
"Two. One more by the door. What the hell are they planning?"
"To kill us all," I said. "What else?"
Brenda looked ahead through narrowing eyes. "I ain't ready to die. Ain't got naked with Andrew Parsons yet."
"Neither have I," I said. I looked over my shoulder. Fatin and Father were half way to the door and I looked closely to see if there were any attackers Brenda had missed. I hadn't brought any weapons. Why would I?
"To hell with this," said Brenda. She got to her feet and walked straight to the 'student' with the big knife. She kicked his feet.
"Watch what you're doing, cocksucker!"
The student glared at her and went for his knife. Brenda's arm shot forward with lethal speed, a flat palm to the face. His head snapped back, and he slumped in his seat. Brenda reached out and took his knife. She ran up the stairs, where another knife wielder was waiting for her. He slashed out at her, but she ducked, and struck his leg. He fell down the stairs at her feet, and without a moment's hesitation, she stabbed him in the back, grabbed his knife, and ran to the door.
I ran up the other flight of stairs. I looked up at my father, who had made it to the door. Someone stood up, also drawing a large knife. Father pushed Fatin behind him, grabbed the man's knife arm, and then with all his might kicked him in the shin with his steel foot. The man screamed, and Father threw him tumbling down the stairs. He landed sprawled in front of me, kindly providing me with a weapon. I stepped on his arm and took his knife away from him. I turned it round in my hand and administered a short sharp blow to the back of the head. I ran up and joined my father and Brenda. Behind me, panic started. I stepped away from the door as a wave of students came through, running for their lives. I exchanged a look with Brenda. A dangerous little grin was on her face. She was enjoying herself!
"Father? We'll take you all to Lady I. Then..."
Father shook his head. "You had better see that Alexandra and our friends are allright. I will take Fatin and little Raage to our Lady. You make yourselves useful here."
"Just what the hell is going on here." We looked, and saw the solid form of Porter Barker walk up through a wave of fleeing students.
Brenda raised her bloody knife. "Aren't the doctors down there the only ones allowed to cut people open?"
Barker growled. "They are. I expect you'll be wanting to give me that knife."
"Life is full of expectations, Mister. This is one that ain't gonna happen."
"Barker," I said. "There were three attackers. There may be more. There may be other targets. Parsons. Wadcroft. Enderby. Are more Porters on their way here?"
"Aye," said Barker.
"Then why don't you hold the fort here, we'll look for the others."
Barker gave me a dark look, then decided we would do as temporary deputy Porters. "Very well, Sir," he said, and without another word he walked into the operating theatre.
Father and Fatin walked away in the direction of the front door. I looked at Brenda. I held up my knife.
"Look what I found," I said.
"I found two," said Brenda.
"Brenda 'Two Hands' Lee," I said. "Wanna go find Prof Wadcroft?"
"Lead on," said Brenda, and we set off for the Dons' living quarters. "I'm sure that 'Two Hands' is already taken."
There is something immensely satisfying in running through hallways. If you can do it while wielding weapons and with a deep sense of purpose, so much the better. The first stop was Prof. Wadcroft's chambers. The door was open. The room was in disarray, one of the cupboards fallen over, the desk upturned.
"Professor!" I shouted.
"Carl?" Wadcroft's voice sounded shaky.
"Yes! Are you all right?"
"Not very, my lad. If you could see your way clear to getting me some medical aid, that would be splendid. Oh. Mind the gentleman under the cupboard. I don't think he has any fight left in him, but you never know."
"Right," I said. "Brenda?"
"On it."
I found Prof. Wadcroft under his desk, clutching his pistol. A large stain of blood was on his shirt, possibly due to the knife in his side. He groaned as I lifted the mahogany desk off him.
"Good Lord," I said. "Try not to move, Professor. Help is under way."
"Attacker's had it," said Brenda. "Prof here tunneled his head. Well done."
"I was aiming for his shoulder," said Wadcroft.
"Good thing you're a lousy shot then."
"Good Lord... Margaret! If they came after me, they'll come after her as well. Go! Go find her! I'll be all right here until help comes."
I looked at Brenda. She shrugged.
"Nothing we can do here anyway, Tennant, 'cept hold his hand."
Wadcroft sneered. "Get out of here. If Margaret dies, she'll never talk to me again. I've got my pistol."
"Don't shoot the porters," I said. "Let's go!"
We set off at a sprint. Professor Enderby had her bedroom and study at the other end of the University Grounds, near the girls' dormitories. The way there led past the shooting range, where we could hear gunshots from Rifle Club members practicing. Brenda drew level with me, eyes aglow.
"Guns," she said, in an almost lustful way.
"Could be useful," I said, and made a beeline for the range.
We found Jocelyn, Nigel, and some members I didn't know, shooting at targets. Carrie, unable to use a rifle with her broken wrist, was acting Fire Marshal. We did cause a bit of a stir, running in with bloodied knives out.
"Cease fire!" shouted Carrie, and firing stopped. She stared at us. "What on Earth is going on?"
"We need two of your rifles and a lot of bullets," I said. "Algernon University is under attack."
Carrie opened her mouth to ask questions, then decided against it. "Edgar, Janice, give them your rifles."
Rifles, Short, Magazine, Lee-Enfield were presented to us, and we quickly topped up the magazine. We stuffed our pockets with spare strips of bullets.
"Thank you," I said. "There's an unknown number of attackers out. If you see anyone unknown approaching, fire over their heads. They mainly have knives. They'll not attack you if they can help it."
"Who..." Carrie hesitated. "Who are they after?"
Brenda grinned. "Us," she said.
It did feel good to be suitably armed, but I wish we had been quicker. We found Professor Enderby's room in a state of disarray similar to Professor Wadcroft's. There was no sign of her. That there was no sign of blood, was only little consolation.
"Too late," I said. "We're too damn late!"
"Let's go find Parsons," said Brenda. "We dont know where she is, and we can only lose time looking for her."
"Running round like bloody headless chickens." I sighed. "You're right though."
We arrived at Andrew Parsons' workshop. A few porters were already at the doors, and they let us in. We were too late again. One of the attackers lay on the ground, twisted and broken, and a single look was enough to know he was dead. Andrew Parsons was sitting on the ground, hands over his head, rocking back and forth, whimpering, muttering. Miss Sunderland was next to him, arms round him.
"It's not your fault," she said. "It's not your fault. It's not your fault."
"Miss Sunderland," I said.
She looked up at me, tears streaming down her face.
"They've got Enderby," she said. "They're taking her to your airship. They're going to use her to get in, and then they'll kill everyone and steal your ship."
Andrew tossed back his large, bearded head, and howled. Miss Sunderland pulled his head to her.
"Andrew! It's not your fault!"
I looked round. Brenda was already on the run, and it took me a while to catch up. I caught the look in her eyes.
"Brenda! What's wrong?!"
"I am sick to my teeth of this goddamn scum! I've had it with these bastards. No more playing nice. No goddamn mercy. They are dead." She looked at me. "I used to be a goddamn marine! There's only two kinds of people. Combatants and civilians." She sped up. "You do not attack the goddamn civvies!" She turned her run into a sprint and said nothing more. I wondered, not for the last time, just who we had invited into our midst.
We were running down the path past the Homoeopathic Gardens when Brenda, in mid-run, threw herself to the ground. I did the same, and landed next to her. She pointed, and I saw the barrel of a rifle sticking out of a hedge. Brenda pointed her hand at it, and gave me a strange look. Alexandra was the sniper of the family, but I knew that what you don't do is stick out your rifle barrel for everyone to see. You may as well tie a flag to it. Before I could comment, Brenda was already on the move, moving quietly but quickly round to behind the rifleman. I followed her, but kept my distance. As I watched, she sprang forward, grabbed the shooter by an arm and raised her knife. There was a high pitched scream.
"Don't kill me!"
"Brenda!" I shouted, recognising Miss Anna Melchior, one of the Rifle Club girls.
"Please!" Anna threw away her rifle, raised her hands.
Brenda grunted. "Oh calm down. I'm a bit..." she looked at me. "Cross, but I can still see the difference between an enemy and a goddamn idiot. What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"We're... we're providing cover fire."
"Oh for Christs' sake! Put that gun away, and go somewhere safe! You're going to hurt someone!"
"That's the point," said Anna.
I saw Brenda take a deep breath, and I put my hand on her shoulder.
"Miss Melchior. Please, please do not get involved. The Porters are in control of the main building. Go there, and leave the fighting to us."
Anna gave a nod, and started to run down the path.
"Wait! said Brenda. "Are there any more of you amateurs lurking around?"
"Yes," said Anna. "Jocelyn and Nigel on the Brownings, with Florence and Bertram using the Smellies, that's the SMLEs. The rest are hiding in the shed."
"Thank you, Miss Melchior," I said. "Off you go."
We watched her run down the path, rifle in hand, and hoped she wouldn't shoot anyone. Brenda rolled her eyes.
"Wonderful. So we've got a bunch of amateur snipers round the place. What else? Improvised land mines? Maybe some artillery?"
"Who knows?" I said. "Let's move."
We ran on, down the path to the field where Lady I was floating above the ground, as high as her cables would let her, which was about forty yards. I could see the gangplank lying on the ground. The starboard door was open, suggesting that Father and Fatin had lifted off in a hurry. We were not the first to arrive. In the field below were three men. Two of them were holding Professor Margaret Enderby between them. The third, a large heavy man, was shouting at those inside Lady I to come down.
We were a few hundred yards away, maximum range for our ancient rifles, and neither of us had ever fired them before. All we could do was shorten that difference, or we might even hit Enderby. As we ran, we saw how the leader turned round, took a hold of Professor Enderby's chin, paused a moment, then hit her back-hand across the face with a dramatic swing of the arm. She cried out in pain, and then his arm came round again, hitting her in the stomach. Enderby crumpled up, but she was pulled up again. We were at a little over a hundred yards distant. It would have to do.
"Left's mine!" I said.
Brenda made no reply. At the same time, she and I dropped to one knee, aimed, fired. My target fell down, hit in the side. Brenda hit hers center-mass. He was dead before he hit the ground. We ran forward, closing the rest of the distance. The last man turned round, holding up Professor Enderby by her hair. Seeing the expression on her face made my blood boil, but I had no clean shot. He drew one of the knives I had seen them all use.
"Drop your weapons! Else I gut her like a fish!"
"Like you won't otherwise," said Brenda, under her breath.
"Now!" He slashed his knife across Enderby's shoulder, cutting her shirt and her arm. She screamed, her legs gave, but he pulled her back up. "Drop them now!"
"Stop!" I said. "I'll do it. See!"
I put my rifle on the ground, taking a gamble on Brenda not doing the same.
"Now let her go!"
He spat at Brenda. "You too, whore!"
Brenda didn't move a muscle. "I don't know this bitch," she snarled. "I'll shoot her and you too."
"Drop the gun!" The man raised his knife high. "I can stick her, and she won't die for hours. You get to watch her bleed to death."
There was a sudden cracking noise, and then the man's forearm exploded into bloody fragments. The knife fell to the ground. Only then did we hear the shot. I looked, and in the distance I saw a girl with long dark hair, sitting on the ground, rifle resting on her knee.
"Won't you look at that?" said Brenda. "It's Hand Job Girl!"
"What?"
"Long story."
I could see Jocelyn was watching us through the rifle scope, so I waved at her and pointed at the University building. As I saw her get up and run away, there was a gunshot behind me. I turned round like a whirlwind. Brenda had shot my first target in the head. She pulled back the bolt and let it click back.
"Just makin' sure," she said.
The other man was on the ground, clutching his mangled arm. Brenda kicked him in the chest, aimed.
"Brenda!"
"What?"
"Don't kill him!"
"Why not?"
Why not?! I took a breath. "Dead men don't talk."
"Hm."
I dropped to my knees next to Enderby. She had her eyes screwed tightly shut, and her teeth were chattering.
"Professor? Are you hurt?"
Professor Enderby opened her eyes, looked at me. She tried to speak, but no words came out.
"Get her in here!"
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Silent like a ghost, Lady I had descended. My father stood in the doorway. I gave him a nod, looked at Enderby. She was clearly in no condition to walk, so I picked her up and carried her to Lady I. I gently put her down in the entrance, as the gangplank was still lying on the ground some distance away.
"Brenda?"
"Yeah?"
"Keep an eye on that man. I'll be right back."
"All right."
"And don't shoot him!"
"Christ, Tennant. I know! If you really don't want him dead, bring a tourniquet."
I carried Enderby to one of the empty cabins and put her on the bed. She was still shivering uncontrollably, which was no surprise. I ran and grabbed the medical kit, poured her that cure for everything, a Laudanum-and-water. I made her drink it. She calmed down, and fell asleep. I turned round. My father stood behind me. In his hands were two Mauser pistols on their belts. They were at least as accurate as the Lee-Enfield rifles.
"My son, take that piece of human filth to the Porters, and then go and guard Alexandra. I don't have as much faith in their abilities as Dr. Pike."
I took the tourniquet out of the medical kit and leapt down. Brenda was waiting for me with her thumbs pressed down on the man's arm.
"You took your sweet time! I'm not the one who wants this bastard alive, remember?"
I dropped to my knee, wrapped the tourniquet round the man's arm and tighened it so Brenda could let go.
"I brought you a Mauser pistol to make amends."
"Nice," said Brenda. She put on the belt and tightened it.
"And I'll carry him," I said.
I looked at him. He had lost consciousness through blood loss, but he was still breathing. I hefted him onto my shoulders.
"Oh now you're being too nice, Tennant. You've got a rotten job lined up for me, haven't you?"
As soon as we walked into the building, we were met by Dr. Godfrey Pike, who looked uncharacteristically angry. He waved over a pair of porters with a stretcher, who took my burden off my shoulders. We followed them to the infirmary, heaving with activity. When a few hundred students are on the run, there will be accidents. Pike turned to me.
"Where's Enderby?"
"On board Lady I, superficial injuries, sedated."
"Good. Wadcroft's in the infirmary. Tough as an old boot. Demanding to be let out already."
I looked round the room. "Where is Alexandra?"
"In her room, still asleep. Barker himself is guarding her. She is safe."
"Where's Dr. Singh?"
"Lending a hand with the plasters. There's a couple of students here who have been bandaged up by the most ridiculously overqualified physician imaginable. I have sent someone out to the Police, but he won't be back for at least an hour. I don't want to give the enemy time to plan something. If you are up for it, I need a few people to sweep the grounds looking for leftover evildoers. Can I volunteer you?"
I looked round the ward a few times. I desperately wanted to see Alex, but she was still asleep. And as Dr. Pike had said, there were evildoers to hunt.
"All right," I said.
"Splendid," said Pike. "Miss Lee?"
"I'll volunteer her as well," I said.
Brenda grinned. "Great. Now I can go on a rampage, and it'll be all your fault."
Pike took hold of one more Porter, a dour old man named Stephens, and went through each and every corridor in the place, with Pike opening every door with his master key. He knew every single nook and cranny, from the top of the bell tower to the basement with the heating boilers, where he kicked an ashtray filled to the brim with cigarette stubs.
"Filthy habit," he said.
"Can name a few worse," said Brenda.
We walked back up the stairs, and out onto the courtyard, meaning to go to the Alchemy laboratories. Porter Stephens stood still.
"Dr. Pike? The front gate is open."
"Body," said Brenda. "By the stables."
"That's Wilson," said Porter Stephens.
"Cover me," said Brenda, crouched, and ran towards the still body. She slid down on her knees, pistol out, looking round. Then, she held a finger to the man's neck. She looked back at us over her shoulder, shook her head.
Pike came walking up, calmly. He looked down, then took off his jacket and draped it over Wilson's face.
"I sent him out to get the police. They'll be here shortly, if I know Inspector Morris. I think some of our enemies saw him return, and seized the opportunity to flee in the carriage."
"Back to Lady I," I said. "We may be able to spot them from the sky."
We left Porter Stephens to guard the body of his unfortunate colleague, and ran back to the field, not as quickly as might be, because one of us wasn't as young as he knce was. I ran ahead, while Brenda stayed with Pike. With Lady I's gondola nearly brushing the fences, we steered her towards Brenda and Pike to shorten their way. With all on board, we shot up into the air and manned the telescopes. Father was at the helm, and he spun Lady I round in a slow circle. Pike was the first one to see the bright yellow roof of the Algernon University carriage.
"On our two o'clock," he said. "On the road to Colchester."
Father turned the wheel to starboard, and we sped up in pursuit. Presently, we overtook them, and descended in front of them.
"Carl," said Father, with an enviable calm, "Aft cannon if you please."
I ran, and lowered myself onto the gun deck. The red drum of incendiary rounds was still on the gun. I blew into the speaking tube.
"Yes my boy?"
"Ready Father. Standing by."
"Descending."
Father took us down to a stomach-churning ten yards above the hard ground. The men in the carriage noticed us, and one of them pulled out a gun and fired. I heard the bullets hit the gondola.
"Father!" I yelled down the tube. "They are shooting at us!"
"Shoot back, Son. Honestly, do I have to tell you everything?"
I grabbed the handles of the machine gun, aimed. I would have given anything to have Alex here with her rifle. The Parsons Repeating Rifles, Mark Two, were not precision instruments and I might well hit the horses. Nothing to be done about it, though. I aimed in front of the carriage and pressed the trigger. The canon shook in my hands and belched angry fire at the carriage. As it happened, the horses did not appreciate the fireworks, and bolted off to the side. The carriage overturned, taking the poor animals with them. One of the men was thrown out of the carriage, fell to the ground, and didn't move.
"Father! Dead stop!"
I could hear the propellers change their pitch, and Lady I brought herself to a shuddering halt. The other man had freed himself from the carriage and aimed his gun at me.
"My gun is bigger than yours," I murmured. I fired another salvo, stopping just short of the man's feet. I stared at him through the gun sight. "Go on. Fire again. See what happens."
The man hesitated one moment, then scowled. The next moment, Brenda came running up, pistol out. I could just hear her shouting instructions. The man fell to his knees, then lay down on his stomach. Lady I descended further, until the landing wheels touched the ground. Next, Pike came into sight. He walked over to the other man, and after one look walked back to Brenda. I climbed out of the gun deck, and ran to the door. The attacker, held at gunpoint by Dr. Pike, stepped on board, and was led to the cargo hold. Brenda came up carrying the other man on her shoulders. She dropped him on the floor in the corridor.
"I think the horses are all right," she said. "Just fallen over. If we put the carriage back on its feet, we can drive it back home. Do you know how to drive a horse and cart?"
"I do," I said. "You stay on board and help Pike guard the prisoner. I'll drive back."
"Aye-aye Your Worship."
We freed the horses from the carriage. It took the strength of both myself and Brenda together to get the thing back on its wheels, while Fatin held the horses, stroking them and whispering in their ears, which seemed to calm them down. Still, their ears twitched nervously as we put them back in front of the carriage. I looked at Fatin. I didn't like the idea of her being in the same airship as a dangerous individual.
"Would you like to drive home with me?"
Fatin grinned. "I will wrap up Raage."
I stood by the horses' heads, gently stroking their muzzles, as Lady I rose above us. I jumped into the box, and looked behind me. Fatin, Raage in her lap, a blanket over her knees against the cold, looked up at me.
"All ready?" I said.
"Go. I want to see Alex now."
It took us the better part of an hour to get back to Algernon University. I took it fairly easy, never pushing the horses above a trot. They were still a bit shaken from their fall, not to mention having a few dozen tracer rounds dropped in front of them. The run did seem to do them some good, though I suspected the stablemaster would have some hard words for our treatment of them. When we reached the gates of Algernon, I could see two police carriages standing in the courtyard. A stable hand came to me and started to look over our poor beasts. I ignored his looks. I wanted to see my sister.
Fatin and I walked to Alexandra's ward. As I entered, I saw Father, Prof. Enderby, and Brenda sitting on chairs round her bed. She was lying back in the pillows, her dark hair contrasting with the white linen. Her eyes were closed. I took my sister's hand, stroked her hair, kissed her forehead. A slow smile appeared on her face and she opened her eyes. When she spoke, her voice sounded like it came from far away.
"I knew you would get all soppy over me, dear brother of mine."
I looked at the blanket, and saw the shape of two legs and two feet underneath.
"How are your legs?" I asked.
Alexandra blinked slowly. "Hurting like bloody hell. But Dr. Bernhardt has some good medicine."
"The operation..." I started, but Alexandra's eyes had fallen to again.
The door opened, and a tired-looking Dr. Singh came in. He took off his spectacles, polished them, put them on again.
"Good afternoon," he said. "How are we doing?"
"We appear to be sleeping," I said. "How is she, Doctor?"
"The operation was a complete success," said Dr. Singh. "No complications, and the prosthetic was a perfect fit. Miss Alexandra may have grown half an inch, but that is well inside allowable tolerances."
"I hope you weren't, um, disturbed by the... unpleasantness and noises?"
Dr. Singh gave a little chuckle. "Good gracious me, no. I studied for my doctorate in a rather disreputable place named Roanapur. Many opportunities for studying broken bones, I can tell you. I have performed surgery while someone held a gun to my head. My profession is not one for people of a nervous disposition."
Alex' eyes fluttered open. "Doctor. Good afternoon. How are we doing?"
"We," said Dr. Singh, "are going to have a lovely sleep. It will take maybe twelve hours for the cement to set. After that, we will get you into the gymnasium, and will start practicing your walk."
"I can walk tomorrow?"
Dr. Singh nodded. "Not only can you, my dear, you must. I have mistreated your leg muscles like never before, even in Sudan. You must keep them from seizing up through gentle exercise. But that is something for tomorrow. For now, it is better that you rest."
Alex' eyes closed again. "Thank you, Doc-tor," she whispered. Then, she fell asleep.
Alexandra Tennant: A new lease on life
Leaps and bounds - Manage the damage - A present from Paris - Falling flowers - Running towards danger - Wainwright's list - Combat readiness
Unlicensed surgery
Linda Davenport reporting
What a time to be alive, Kind Reader. We live in a time where injuries that would be fatal to ancient man, can be repaired using the skills of the surgeon. The Clarion can report that the surgery performed by Dr. Singh of Oxford University, on Miss Alexandra Tennant's knees, was a complete success, and that with time, she is expected to make a full recovery. The operation consisted of opening up the legs, removing the part of her knees that was damaged by an accident, and replacing them with prosthetics fashioned out of stainless steel by Mr. Andrew Parsons. That we as a people can do this is testament to our great achievements.
Unfortunately, the Clarion must also report that the procedure was rudely interrupted by a number of unknown individuals who attacked the student body with knives. Only through the sterling efforts of our Porters, assisted by certain visitors to our University, was the danger averted, and injuries to Students limited to bumps, scrapes and bruises sustained while retreating to the safety of our dorms. On behalf of the student body, we extend our thanks to them.
Who the attackers are, and what dark motives prompted them to carry out this attack, remains a mystery. The Head of Security, Dr. Pike, assures us that measures have been taken to prevent this kind of attack from even being attempted in the future. The new requirement to wear our student passes on our uniform at all times, is part of these measures. If you see an unknown student without a pass, please do not approach, but warn one of the Porters, who will take the appropriate measures to keep us safe.
With the arrest of the attackers, it is hoped that this threat to our safety is now eliminated.
"Come on, Alexandra. put a bit of effort in. You didn't go through all this to walk on your hands!"
I sneered at my father, set my jaw, turned round between the parallel bars, and started to walk to the other end. It was two weeks since my operation, and sad to say, my knees still hurt. Still, the nature of the pain had changed. Where once was the desperate complaint of bones, cartilage, and tendons damaged beyond repair, there now was the protest at an unwelcome intruder, an unnatural presence. Most importantly, this pain promised to go away once my poor abused legs would become used to the new situation. I could not fault the handiwork of Andrew Parsons, nor that of Dr. Praveen Singh, who had returned to Oxford. My future now lay in my own hands, or rather at my feet. My days were filled with walking exercise, examinations, physical therapy where Dr. Bernhardt or one of his assistants would bend, straighten, and turn my legs as far as they would go and maybe a fraction beyond that. My greatest joy was that I could bear the remaining pain with only one or two drops of morphia, and that only at night before bed, to help me sleep. The wheelchair that I had feared would be my constant companion for the rest of my life, stood by the starboard exit inside Lady I, unused. Once my confidence would be restored, I would return it to the infirmary to help some other unfortunate.
Brenda Lee had signed on as "cabin boy and general dogsbody" with what had suddenly become "Tennant Airborne Scientific Transport and Expedition Company." No longer was Lady I simply our home, she was the main asset of our company. Even though I knew full well that Father had always intended it to be so, it felt strange that we were turning our home into a Bed-and-Breakfast for scientists. The front cabins, with four bunks each, would be reserved for paying guests. Brenda had joined me in my cabin, which meant that gone were the days I cold simply leave my clothes lying around in my bottom bed. The professional military teaches an iron discipline in tidiness, and I felt compelled to be at least as tidy as she was. At least I could claim seniority, and with it, the bottom bunk.
As it turns out, one cannot simply fight off an attack from a foreign agency, killing enemies here there and everywhere, without inviting the Police's warm attention. Of all our little troupe, I was the only one with a cast iron excuse, having been unconscious throughout the whole affair. Between them, Father, Carl and Brenda had killed or knocked out six men, caused the loss of a hand in a seventh, and caused an eighth to soil himself with salvos of incendiary rounds. Dr. Pike, the Porters, and the Police had caught and arrested four more agents, and they were now in prison in London, being interviewed by members of the Secret Police. In the end, all of our homicides were judged justifiable and self defence, and we were all released back into an unsuspecting world.
Margaret had recovered from her injuries, though with a bitter sneer, she said that her days of off-the-shoulder dresses were now a thing of the past. It was unlikely that her knife wound would heal without a scar. I was worried that she no longer seemed to enjoy lunch in the students' mess hall, but kept to the Faculty lounge, or more often, her own room. I visited her regularly, often with Fatin and Raage, or Brenda, but she seemed to tolerate those visits more than that she welcomed them.
Andrew Parsons was another story altogether. During the fighting at Algernon, one of the enemies had come into his workshop, aimed a gun at him, and fired. Luckily for him, Andrew had been working at the smelting cauldron, making ingots of chromium steel for a project, and had been wearing full protective gear that had turned the bullet leaving little more than a dent. Andrew had stormed forward, bellowing, and broken his attacker in many places. Once his first rage was over, and he realised what he had done, he had simply broken down, muttering to himself in phrases only known to himself, until Miss Felicia had found him. He had eventually returned to his workshop, but since that day, not a single working device had come out of his hands. My replacement knees might have been his final product. He hadn't spoken a single word since the attack, not even to Miss Felicia.
Brenda and Carl had crawled all over Lady I's envelope and checked every inch of her for leaks, replaced the broken window, plugged and painted over the bullet holes, until she was fully airworthy again. With a fresh supply of hydrogen gas, a full tank of boiling water, and a full bunker of high energy coal, she was once more ready to take us wherever we needed to go. Where exactly that was, was a matter of some debate, but for now, we simply licked our wounds and restored ourselves as best we could.
I had started walking outside for my exercise, usually with Brenda, sometimes with Carl. The pain was now a low undertone in my daily experience, and I honestly could not tell whether it had grown less, or whether I had grown used to ignoring it. My new knees, now that every step was no longer a sting of pain, felt solid, strong, supple. With Carl, I tended to take longer walks, where Brenda would seduce me into taking short runs that left me sore, tired, but satisfied.
After one of these runs, I walked back onto the bridge with Brenda. Father and Carl were at the navigation table, cups of tea in hand, looking at maps.
"Ah, Alexandra," said Father. "There's a package for you. From Paris. Have you been clothes shopping?"
"I'm not expecting any package," I said. "What kind of package?"
Father shrugged. "Oblong. Fairly large. Go see, I left it by your cabin door."
We walked down into the cargo bay, where Brenda had hung up a punching bag and laid down mats. She and Carl regularly sparred these days, and were about evenly matched. The stairs up were still hard for me, but I pulled myself up by the handrail. At the door to my, our cabin, I found a rectangular slab of brown paper with Paris postmarks.
"Santa's come early," said Brenda.
"Paris is much nicer than the South Pole anyway," I said. The package was heavy. I put it on the dining table, pulled out a pen knife and cut it open. Inside was a light brown wooden box, and a short letter.
Alex,
You stupid woman, what kind of sniper drops her rifle? I found this in the Prometheus hideout in the Marais, and thought you might like it. If you're dead, kindly have someone return it to me because I can sell it for a mint. I'm hoping that with this thing, you can make yourself useful for a change.
Riley.
"Christ," said Brenda. "Even when he's sending you presents, he's still an asshole."
"It's his job in life," I said. "And he excels at the position."
I turned the box round and unsnapped the locks. I opened the box. Inside, in green baize, lay a rifle, disassembled in parts: stock, forestock and barrel, scope, suppressor, bipod. There were five magazines, five rounds each. Empty, of course. One does not exhaust the loading spring by shipping magazines full.
"Oh my," I said. "Well, if he keeps giving me presents like this, he can be an arsehole for all I care."
I took out all the parts and assembled them. I recognised this rifle as the Accuracy International Arctic Warfare Super Magnum. The finished product was... ugly. My Mauser SR220 had been a polished work of art, a rifle that one would display on a wall when not in use. This rifle looked and felt different. The scope had a range finder that showed you the height of a man at various distances. It had a much greater magnification than my old rifle. It had knobs for windage, focus, visual indicators for elevation. But the finish was rough and utilitarian with nuts and bolts showing. This was not a piece of art. this was a tool for ruining people's lives with. Before this adventure, I would never have given it another look. I would probably never grow as attached to this rifle as to my Mauser. But this rifle put me solidly back into the game. It would do nicely.
"I'll have to test this," I said.
One simply cannot trust a rifle unless one has seen it in pieces, so I stripped the rifle down to its component parts, brushed out its barrel, applied a little oil here and there, then reassembled it. I attached the strap, slung it on my back, picked up one of the magazines. I walked to the bridge, showed Carl and Father my new toy, told them not to wait up, and together with Brenda, I headed for the range.
I had expected a large group of members busily practicing, but there was nobody there. I looked at Brenda. She shrugged.
"Let's go find one of the girls," I said. "I need someone to open the ammo cupboard for me."
We walked up to the girls' dorm, knocked on the door, entered. The only person there was Jocelyn. She was sitting at the table, seemingly reading the newspaper, but it was still turned to the front page and she was staring out of the window. Brenda waved.
"Hey Handjob! Where is everyone?"
Jocelyn looked round to us, and I was startled to see how dull her eyes were. I hadn't talked to her since my operation.
"Tour of the Alchemy lab," she said.
"Oh?" I said. "So why aren't you with them?"
"Not gonna study sodding Alchemy," said Jocelyn. She looked back down at the newspaper, no more reading it than before.
"Hey!" Brenda walked over to her. "Miss Alexandra here has a new toy. Wanna come with us and play with it? I'm sure she'll let you have a go. After me, of course."
"Toy?"
I unslung my new rifle and showed her. "Just arrived. Haven't fired Round One with it."
I saw Jocelyn shiver and look away. "I never want to touch one of those things again."
"What? Why not? You're so good at it."
"I don't want to be good at it anymore. I've shot two people now! I don't want to shoot at another person. Ever again!" Jocelyn's eyes filled up with tears. "It's horrible!"
I put my rifle on the table on its bipod, then hurried over to Jocelyn, prompting a stab from my knees reminding me that they were still new at this job. I ignored them, sat down next to Jocelyn, put an arm round her shoulder.
"You saved my life, and you saved Margaret's life. You did nothing wrong."
"I know that," said Jocelyn. "It's still horrible. The blood, and the pain. That man lost his right hand because of me. He must hate me so much right now."
"Yeah," said Brenda, sitting down on Jocelyn's other side. "He's gonna have to jerk off with his other hand from now on."
"Every time I close my eyes, I see it happen again. I want it to stop. I'm scared!"
Brenda reached out and put her hand on Jocelyn's shoulder.
"Listen Handj... what's your name again? Jolene?"
"Jocelyn."
"Jocelyn. Good. Jocelyn, you wanna know what happened? I'll tell you what happened. There were these three bastards who wanted to steal Lady I. Lady I has two very big repeating cannons, and a stack of fire bombs. Do you realise what they could have done with that? So they grabbed your goddamn Physics teacher, and she's never even slapped anyone, and they beat the crap out of her to get into our airship." Brenda turned her chair towards Jocelyn and faced her. "So Carl and I came up and killed two of them, and then the third cut her, and he was going to stab her where she'd die slow. That's the kind of scum you were up against."
"Brenda..." I said. Jocelyn was shivering.
"Shut up, Tennant." Brenda bent forward. "And then there was you. You were over half a click away, and you saw this happening." Brenda pointed a finger at Jocelyn's face. "Now if it was me, I'd have gone for the head, and it'd have been a Hail Mary shot, as likely to kill the Prof as anything. But you. You saw this goddamn pig raise his arm, and you fired, and you hit exactly what the hell you were aiming for." Brenda grinned. "You did good, Sister."
"He's going to come after me," said Jocelyn. "Once he finds out it was me."
"He is in prison," I said. "And unlikely ever to come out again."
"You're clear," said Brenda. "Carl told the cops that it was me who shot him, and I said yes. Nobody knows you were even there."
"They'll find out. They'll come after me, and I'm scared!"
"That ain't what you're scared of," said Brenda.
Jocelyn sat still, her shivers stopped, as if Brenda had slapped her. She started to say something, shut her mouth.
"I know exactly what you're scared of. You, Sister, are scared of how good it felt. That little jolt just beneath your belt when you saw that man's arm explode." Brenda grinned. "It did feel good, didn't it? Go on. Tell me you didn't need a clean pair of underpants afterwards, and I'll call you a liar."
"I..." Jocelyn's shoulders righted themselves as she sat up. "Yes. It did feel good. And I don't want it to feel good. I don't ever want to feel good again about hurting someone."
"Too late," said Brenda, simply. "First time you shot someone, you probably got away with it because you were pissing yourself. This time, no such luck. You ain't no virgin anymore, Jocelyn."
"I still don't want to go out and shoot people. I'm not like you."
"You think I'm sitting here, just waiting for the next time I can blow someone's brains out? Ain't that crazy yet." Brenda laughed. "Give it time."
"How many?" No need to guess how many what.
Brenda shrugged. "Don't know. Honestly don't know. I can tell you exactly what the weather was like, raining, baking hot, ice cold. The sounds. Flies. Bombs. Gunfire, theirs and ours. The lay of the land. But not the faces of everyone I shot. Hand to hand, I remember a few, 'cause it's more personal and you've been stupid to let them get that close. But I couldn't tell you exactly how many if I wanted to."
"Anna says you tried to kill her."
Brenda's jaw dropped. "What, that sour piece of..."
"Yes." Jocelyn chuckled. "I told her that if you'd really tried, she wouldn't be here."
Brenda leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, sighed.
"Got that right. Stupid bitch." She looked back at Jocelyn. "There's the bad guys. Scum like Prometheus, their hired crazies. There's loads and loads of people like 'em in this world. And then there's the civilians. You, even if that's gonna change if I'm any judge. Your friends with their old guns shooting at bits of paper. Moss-covered professors. Farmers. Builders. Mothers with children. The people who make the world go round. And in between..." Brenda rolled her shoulders, smacked her fist into her hand. "There's me."
Brenda and Jocelyn sat still for a few moments, looking at each other.
"Hey Handjob," said Brenda.
"I never did give Nigel a handjob. You know that, right?"
"Well there's your problem. You give him one, and he'll do whatever you say to get another."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"There's pieces of paper out on the range," said Brenda. "The paper... is very evil. Want to go and shoot 'em?"
"Are you sure the paper is evil?"
"Positive. It's got circles on for Chrissake."
"Let's go," said Jocelyn.
Brenda grinned. "First one out on the range gets the first shot."
"Brenda!" I scowled at her. "You bloody biped!"
We were in Chancellor Monroe's office, I, Father, Carl, Fatin with Raage, Brenda, Wadcroft, Margaret, Pike, Miss Felicia Sunderland. Andrew was in his workshop. He still hadn't made anything worth mentioning, and Miss Felicia was in a permanent bad mood.
"We have not been attacked for two months," said Munro. "I would never have thought that I'd ever have cause to be relieved at news like that. This is a school, ladies and gentlemen. It is not a sodding crannog."
"We've stirred up a hornet's nest," said Carl. Fatin's eyes gleamed at him, and she said a few words in her own language. Carl laughed. "As my lovely wife often reminds me, that is never a good thing."
"Got to kill all the hornets now," said Brenda.
Wadcroft gave a kind of disgruntled grunt. "The problem is that the hornets are scattered all over the globe, and that they employ wasps to come and sting us here."
"They are hurting our students," said Monroe, clearly not in the mood for the aphid theme. "And despite the work of Dr. Pike, we cannot keep them out."
"We could," said Pike. "But then, this place would become a crannog."
Margaret looked rond the table. "Are we going to see the elephant in the room? Prometheus is not after our students. They're after us. Wherever we go, they go. We are the ones endangering our students. Even Andrew."
There were a few long moments of silence after that. There was no escaping the truth in this. If Prometheus would set off a bomb right under Munro's desk, all their worries would be over. There was only one thing to do to keep Algernon University safe, but nobody wanted to be the first to mention it.
"So when are we leaving?" said Brenda.
"If need be, we can leave within the hour," said Father. "Lady I is fuelled, watered, repaired and provisioned. All we lack is a destination."
"Andrew will miss his workshop," said Miss Felicia. "He does not thrive on change. And unlike last time, there will be no guarantee he can return."
"He's got a whole airship to tinker with," said Margaret, a hint of the twinkle of old in her eye.
"He is still not working," said Miss Felicia. "And he is not talking to me either. I don't know what is going on in his head."
"Where are we going?" said Carl.
Father reached out his arm and knocked the head of his pipe on Munroe's ashtray.
"Paris," he said. "We will find Mr. Riley, and then we will set course for each and every one of the cities on Mr. Wainwright's list. We will find all the hideouts of Prometheus, and we will destroy them. If Slate is still alive, then we will find him, and kill him."
"Good hunting," said Chancellor Monroe.
Lady I was over the English Channel once more, making for Paris. I was looking forward to seeing the Eiffel Tower again, knowing that it was due to my efforts, and those of Carl and Fatin, that it still stood. I remembered the leap of faith I had made into Carl's arms. Would I be able make that same leap now, even with knees made of steel? I was more sure than ever that Carl would catch me, but was I strong enough to leap the distance? I didn't feel the same thrill I usually felt at the start of an expedition. Normally, I would have been excited to think of the new things we would find, the things we would learn in this strange and wonderful world. This time, we would not go in search of knowledge, but to hunt. At the same time, Prometheus would be hunting us, and so far, it seemed like their resources were superior to ours. We might die. Worse. We might fail.
I looked up to see Brenda sit down in the chair next to me. She put a mug of tea on my armrest, coffee on her own. She pulled out a small black Moleskine notebook and started to leaf through it.
"What's that?" I said.
"One of the eggheads died back in Slate's lair. I got this off him. Maybe he's got family and I can give it to them."
"What does it say?" I said, mainly to distract myself.
"Don't know," said Brenda. "I can't read French. It says here Nid d'Aigle. That means Eagle's nest doesn't it?"
"Let me see," I said, taking the notebook from Brenda. I turned a few pages. Dr. Dupont's pencil handwriting was small, crabbed, with the occasional smudge.
"Hmm. Mademoiselle Lee. That's you."
"What's the little frog saying about me?"
I squinted at the handwriting. "He was charmed to meet you."
"I'll bet he was."
"Les jolis taches sous ses seins... The pretty spots underneath her breasts."
Brenda burst out laughing. She pulled up her shirt, and stabbed a finger at the light brown, unmarked skin there. "You're full of it, Tennant."
I chuckled like a twelve-year old girl, read through a few more pages. "Well, he did seem to like you."
"Only girl there in a sea of men. Hell, I could have picked a new one every day."
"Distracting them from important scientific work." I read on, and as I read, a chill went up my spine. This part was about...
"You weren't the only girl," I said.
"Only nice girl."
Brenda looked at me. I looked back.
"Yes. I'll give you that."
I looked back at the note book, skipping a few pages. My mouth fell open. "Bloody hell!"
"What?"
"Did Carl really lop that woman's head off? Put it on a bloody spike?"
Brenda looked at me strangely. "You were there! You mean you didn't notice?"
I shook my head. "I was otherwise occupied."
"Well, he did."
"Good," I said.
Brenda shook her head. "You Tennants. You seem so nice and friendly, but when push comes to shove, you're really a bloodthirsty bunch of sumbitches."
I sneered. "And you're not?"
"Professional military," said Brenda. "They don't train us to smother 'em in kisses."
I looked back at the notebook, struggling a bit with the French. Was I reading this correctly?
"It says here they knew of the departure of the Khartoum airfleet within an hour of them leaving. Dr. Dupont mentions some sort of device with flickering lights. Is that the same sort of device Carl found in London?"
Brenda shrugged. "Slate was evil, not stupid. Maybe he did some science of his own before he kidnapped the eggheads from France."
"It says here he has connections to Paris. London. Lots of other places."
"Had," said Brenda. "Slate's dead."
"How do you know?"
"Your brother and I saw the place go up. Nobody's gonna survive that."
"You did."
"We weren't there. The place is buried under tons of rock. Poor little Frenchie is buried deep."
I turned to the last written page in the notebook. There was one hastily written note. I handed it back to Brenda.
"Read this," I said.
"I told you, I don't read French."
"It's in English."
Brenda took the book, looked.
My dear friend,
I thank God that you are alive, and I thank you and your friends for making the attempt to take me away from this place. I do not deserve such dedication, but that does not diminish your grand efforts. We are about to go into danger, and I know that this may yet end badly. If the worst should happen, please take this notebook to people who will know what to do with it. It will, perhaps, explain to them what happened in this hell on Earth.
I have slipped the designs of my electrical engines in with the documents my esteemed colleagues have been so eager to gather before leaving. No doubt they intend to use their work as currency in the reckoning that is to follow. If it should come to that, I will simply tell the truth, and bear what life sends my way. I make no excuses.
Above all else, I wish you well. May you find what you seek in life, and may God protect you.
Yours, André Dupont.
Brenda closed the notebook. Looked out of the window with no sign of emotion showing on her face.
"Stupid little man," she said.
It is night. Lady I flies above the clouds, and I am standing on the observation deck, watching the moon turn the clouds into a sea of light. I am looking back towards England, back towards Algernon University. The wind blows my hair into my eyes. I am wearing a new all-environment suit that keeps me warm in cold places, cool when it is warm. I can now climb the ladders with only the memory of pain in my legs. I can touch my toes. I can run. I can jump. I can kick. Yesterday, I first sparred with Carl, who went easy on me. Then I sparred with Brenda, who gave me no mercy, and gave me new bruises where my old ones had just faded. I bathed, then stood naked in front of the mirror and watched myself.
The marks of the ropes have grown less, but can still be seen, and I think they will never completely disappear. The long proficient cuts of Dr. Singh have left me with stitches showing. My legs are no longer beautiful, but they work. My knees are made of unbreakable steel, and my strength is returning. There are burn scars on my arms, on my feet, on my breasts. I remember every touch of the candleflame, every lustful, sadistic smile.
I turn around, walk across the observation deck to Lady I's bows.
I have grown used to my new sniper rifle. It is so accurate that it is almost frightening. I have hit targets the size of an apple at two thousand meters, with ease. One of the cartridges, I have saved. I have engraved on it the name of Nicholas Slate. I am wearing it now on a silver chain around my neck, and I will not take it off again until our expedition is done.
At the behest of Magister Nicholas Slate, people have died.
People have suffered. Margaret. Dr. Wadcroft. All those poor women and children who now lie dead in an unmarked mass grave. Their husbands, enslaved, and now recruited into an unknown organisation by Master Nazeem, learning to curb their hatred.
I have suffered more pain than I ever thought I could bear, and more.
Even Brenda, with the ghosts from her past, has suffered at Slate's hands.
We will hunt him.
We will find him.
I will use that bullet.
And I will not miss.
Fatin Tennant: Our new tribe
I was Fatin of the Ajuru, but no more. I am now Fatin Tennant. I write these words so people can learn of the life of our little tribe. There are eight people in my tribe.
Our Elder is Captain Philip Tennant, who walked through South America on two legs and the love for a dead woman, and who returned with only one leg, and the love for two dead women.
Captain Philip is the father of Alexandra Tennant, who was hurt by a bad woman and her men. Her legs were healed by good men and women. The waters of her thoughts run dark, and she must find a clean source, to make them light again. She thinks that hunting our enemy will do that, but I think she is wrong. I will try to be with her and help her as much as she will let me.
Captain Philip is also the father of my big strong man Carl Tennant, who walked through deserts, mountains, jungles, to return to me so he could be with me and our son Raage. It is almost like he is two men at the same time. I see him angry, and I am afraid. I see him hold Raage and I must smile.
Also on board is Brenda Lee, who was a good woman hunter, then a bad woman with bad people, and now has joined us to find her way back. Like Alex, she seeks the clean waters. She took the ropes of pain away from Alexandra's legs, and carried her back to us. She thinks that helping us will help her find peace. I will do what I can to help her.
Doctor Alan is with us too. When I first met him, Raage was growing inside my belly. He led the way to where Carl was, and sent him home to me. He does not speak much. The bad men also hurt him, but he says it was nothing.
Doctor Margaret sat with our women in the tent and laughed with us. Bad men have hurt her, and taken away that laugh. It will take time for that laugh to return, but sometimes, I see it rising up like a silvery fish in a dark river.
Next is Andrew. He is a very large man with steel in his mind, and steel in his body. He made Iris and Itzel, our engines. He made Philip's new leg. He made Alexandra's new knees. He knows nothing of people. Only a few moons ago, his waters ran clear like that of Raage, but no more. A bad man came and tried to kill him. He killed the bad man instead.
Last is Miss Felicia. Her mind is flowing with love for Andrew like mine is for Raage. She feels his pain, but she does not know the song to take it away. She does not even know that she can sing away Andrew's pain. I will try to teach her.
There is one more in our tribe. It is Lady I, our home in the sky. To be at her helm is the best place in the world for me, with her deep breaths that make her rise and fall, with Itzel and Iris now gently walking, now running like the thunder when we must run, either away from danger, or towards it.
And there is still one more. Brenda took her on board the day before Alexandra fell asleep to have her legs healed. She is a cat, a little lion, and her name is Stranger. She has taken the Captain's chair as her bed and will fight Captain Philip for it. Brenda feeds her milk and small bits of meat and calls her all kinds of bad names. Brenda says that a ship needs a cat to hunt the mice. Philip says that there are no mice on board Lady I and Brenda says that Stranger has eaten them all. Captain Philip says he wants to throw her overboard, but all the women say that he will be next if he does, and that is that. Men often think that they are the rulers, and most times, they are. But sometimes, a wise Elder does not speak against the women.
Lady I is now running towards Paris, the large city of the Iron Tower, so we can meet and take on board Riley. I do not like him being in our tribe, but he will help us find Magister Slate. We have a track to pick up. We have prey to find, but this prey can also hunt us. I should be afraid, but with my tribe around me, and Lady I as my friend, I am not afraid.
I feed more coal to Itzel and Iris, and I feel them roar under my feet. We are only a small tribe, but we are strong.
I am Fatin Tennant, and today, we of the Tennant tribe, we hunt.
Lady I and all those who sail in her, will return in: The Rainbow Hunters.