The Algernon Expeditions: The Flight Of The Serpent

Brenda Lee: The Halls of Montezuma

Loud noises - What are we doing here? - Just like you left it - Bunking up - Food's up - Me and my shadow

 

First to fight for right and freedom
And to keep our honor clean
-- "The Marine's Hymn" - Anonymous

 

They've got to be protected
All their rights respected
Until someone we like can be elected
-- "Send the Marines" - Tom Lehrer

 

---

 
You never stop being a Marine, even if you've said goodbye to the Corps. Some phrases are permanently burnt into your head. The habits drilled into you will never leave you. You never stop liking the things Marines like, and one of those things is a nice big explosion. This was a good one. Showy, but good. Loud, lots of flames, and a nice big dark cloud afterwards for us to walk in through. None of that smokeless gunpowder for us. Best of all, it happened to someone else's stuff, which is always better than having it happen in your own home.

Captain Philip Tennant wanted to walk in first, but that ain't happening on my watch. He can say all he likes that the people of the fine city of Anctapolepl love him, and will welcome him back like a lost sheep, but he's still an old man with one and a half legs, one eye, and a busted arm. Me, I'm the Shieldmaiden. If there's even a little chance that the natives want to get unfriendly, I'm going in first. Not that it would've made any difference. There were enough people in there to tear us both to tiny little bits, if they'd thought of it. They were all staring at the smoking heap of planks that used to be their front door. I'd have laughed my head off at their faces, but maintaining an assertive posture is important when dealing with natives.

When there was a wide enough circle of people staring at me, the Captain walked in behind me. He gave a loud speech in the local lingo, and I couldn't understand a word of it. Something like "Hello people! Do you remember the big bang I made when I left? I've made another one, and now I'm your King!"

 
So what, I hear you cry, were you doing there? Do you blow up ancient cities for fun? Was it one of those things that seem like a good idea at the time? Were the Old Man and you planning to plunder a city of five thousand souls, just the two of you?

Let me explain.

Captain Tennant and his motley crew of family and friends had flown into this place looking for the Shadowy Organisation named... Prometheus. Mind the dramatic pause, it's part of the name. Prometheus is one of those secret organisations that want to rule the world, because they'd be such a lot better at it than anyone else. They are a bunch of deranged, delusional bastards, and I should know, because I used to be one of them.

I served in the Corps for a four-year tour of duty, got honourably discharged, blew a lot of money on non-reg tattoos on my arms and where else ain't none of your business. I looked round for something fun to do and fell in with a bunch of unofficial law enforcers whose view was 'Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.' Didn't know that going in, but once you're in, you're in and the only way out... you know what I'm getting at. Our job was mostly beating down the other gangs, which was easy because they were all uneducated morons. Then again so were we, except for Sergeant Brenda Lee of course. I was at least an educated moron. Christ, the way some of these idiots were waving loaded firearms around, made you wonder how any of them survived long enough to ever gain contact with the enemy. Even the most boot-fucked armchair warriors know to keep their goddamn fingers out of the trigger guard.

But I digress.

One day, the red sun rose, and our heroic band of sub-human head bashers was asked to drive the hated enemy out of a warehouse by the docks, because why the hell not? Blood thirst stirred redly in our chest and eagerly we ran to join glorious battle. Victory would not be long coming.

Except the Enemy turned out to be a platoon of Prussian Jäger, led by the old fire-eater Gustav Klemm himself. Unlike our normal prey, they did know what they were doing. Within the space of a minute, we were all slaughtered, except for me because I got knocked down and didn't see the point in getting up. They searched the bodies, found I was still alive, and set about fixing that, but I waved my hands and begged them not to shoot me. They asked me to betray my masters, and I told them a whole goddamn saga. As long as I kept talking, they wouldn't kill me. It was plain as day that as soon as I stopped talking, they would.

I was running out of things to say.

To this day I still don't know what made me say it. But I looked into Klemm's dead blue eyes, and asked him if I could join his outfit.

He stared back at me for the longest two seconds of my life, and then laughed out loud.

"Gib dem Mädchen eine Uniform," he said.

Whether through a bullet in the head, or in other ways, Sergeant Brenda Lee died that day. They taught me how to speak German. They taught me how they worked. And they taught me that having a conscience was a luxury not afforded a Jäger. It'd be nice to think I didn't betray my honour, but I did. The Enforcers were cruel and depraved idiots. Klemm's Jäger were smart, and never cruel and depraved, unless the tactical situation demanded it. Then... If there are any worse out there, I don't want to meet them, and this is me talking.

Some time later, Klemm's Jäger were hired by Prometheus, and I got billeted in the Eagle's Nest, a cave in sunny Sudan. A mining operation with scientific laboratories and a whole bunch of captured scientists.

If you were with Slate, it wasn't too bad a place. If you were a black miner, it was a hell hole. The miners were there against their will, the men taken from a faraway mine where they lived and worked, the women and children killed. The ore they were digging up was poison, so they weren't expected to live long enough to need families. Slate kept them in check in ways that you don't want to admit humans are capable of. In the Eagle's Nest, I never laid hands on any of them. My duty was to bring them food and water. Open the door, put the food down, get out. I couldn't understand their language. I didn't have to look at them. I am not a saint. I've beaten up people who couldn't defend themselves. People who got it coming, you understand? But nothing like this. If I tried hard enough to forget they were human beings, I could just about keep myself sane.

And then they brought in Alexandra Tennant, the Old Man's daughter. They beat her, then messed up her legs. Because they kept her tied up all the time, I had to come in and hold a cup of water to her lips. Listen to her. Look at her, and see her for the human being she was.

That finally broke me.

I could not go on.

Not like this.

There was no escaping the Eagle's nest. Hundreds of miles of desert all round. I don't know what I would have done. Grabbed all the guns I could carry and go out in an orgy of violence. Bite down on the barrel of my sidearm and take a lead pill. Try to sneak up on Slate and slit his throat, to be killed by the rest of the Jäger. Anything.

My memory of what happened is a mess, but sometimes I think I heard Carl sneak up on me. I didn't care. Let them kill me. Hell will be better than this. But instead, Carl needed someone to carry Alexandra back to their airship. He got me to do it. I would have volunteered if he hadn't asked. Come to think of it, I did volunteer. Like I said, it's all a blur. I put Alexandra inside, the Old Man looked at me, saw god only knows what, and let me stay on board. If I live to be a hundred, which isn't likely, I'll never repay him for that.

The Old Man, needless to say, took a dim view of Slate's treatment of Alexandra, and set out to hunt him wherever he might be. We finally tracked him to a place in the South American rain forest, flew there, and promptly got shot down onto a big table mountain. After setting up our happy home, we trudged over to the City, blew up the front gate with a barrel of gunpowder, and that's how we got here.

 

---

 
We were standing by a pyramid hidden inside an extinct volcano, at least I hoped it was extinct. The Egyptians like their pyramids smooth, but the Aztecs make them in big steps. In the middle, there were normal stairs, and they led up to a kind of stone hut at the top of the pyramid. Unless you were a priest, you wouldn't want to be walking up there, because all the way upstairs, they'd rip out your heart and throw what was left of you back down the stairs on the other side. Sometimes, they'd eat you. There was a wide paved street all round the temple, with small buildings here and there. In the outer walls were square holes like windows, and people had been chiselling out dwellings in the side of the mountain for ages. All the way up, the crater was wide enough for an airship to fly into, letting in the sunlight.

Somewhere up there Alexandra would be with her sniper rifle, ready to deal out some highly precise pain. She badly wanted to kill Magister Nicholas Slate. Her legs were still not as good as they'd once been, and likely they never would be. She was wearing a bullet with Slate's name on it on a silver chain round her neck. Before coming here, the Captain had talked to her for a long time. The objective of our stupidly suicidal mission was to put the destiny of the locals back into their own hands where it belonged, and offing Slate at the first opportunity wasn't helpful. Captain wanted to be all subtle. Shooting everybody with a pale face wouldn't do. Alexandra had said yes, though god only knows what she was thinking.

The rest of the Tennant family was holding back in a cave a little way away. Carl, his wife Fatin, and their little boy Raage. That cave had been used for the more sophisticated kind of human sacrifice, when you want the Gods to do something special for you. Make the Sun come up five minutes early, or smite your enemies' King. It hadn't been used for at least a hundred years, so I reckon it didn't work. The cave was connected to the City with a secret tunnel. Slate's minions had collapsed the tunnel, and Carl, Alexandra, and I had spent half a day un-collapsing it. It was our secret way into the city. Blowing up the front door is fun, but you wouldn't want to do it every day.

The last member of our crew was in a canvas bag slung over my shoulder. Stranger, the ship's cat. There's a special place in hell for people who let their dogs starve or abandon their cats to the wild, so I'd picked him up, and before he knew what was happening, stuffed him into a bag. After a lot of angry yowls and moving about, he became quiet and I expect he went to sleep. I got away with it this time, but wasn't counting on it for the next.

 
Captain Tennant was still talking when there was a massive noise coming from the top of the pyramid. Someone was blowing a horn, and it made the whole of the cavern shake like an organ in a cathedral. Like a single man, everybody turned their faces up to the Temple and fell to their knees. Captain and I didn't, of course, because we were too righteous. A man came walking out of the hut at the top of the pyramid, dressed like a peacock. He raised his arms, sleeves hanging down like wings, and the sunlight struck the gold stitched into the fabric. You've got to hand it to these religious types, they know how to make an impression.

We had found Magister Nicholas Slate, and he had found us.

 

---

 
Like a waterfall of gold, Magister Slate came flowing down the stairs towards us. The crowds parted before him in proper Biblical fashion, and he walked right up to us. Slate is a tall man, dark hair, dark moustache, bright grey eyes, and in person he's damn impressive. I won't lie, first time I saw him, he did make my little girl's heart beat faster. Not that he cares. He's as celibate as a priest, thinks that chastity helps him think better.

"Captain Tennant." He gave us a big smile. "What a pleasure to meet you again."

"My joy is as sincere as yours," said the Captain.

"I am curious to know. What makes you think I won't have you both put on a spit and roasted alive?"

"You'd be roasting next to me. If anyone else but me had come in like I did just now, they'd be dead already." the Captain had to look up at the Magister, but even with only one eye, he still looked down on him. "You don't speak Nahuatl, do you?"

"I am fluent in eight languages, and can make myself understood in two, maybe three more. Nahuatl, I must admit, is not among them."

"These people know me. I am the King's Alchemist, favoured by the Lady Itzel, who whispers the words of the Gods into my ear. I forged the axe of King Ilhicamina, before he was called to sit at the side of Huitzilopochtli. And now, I am returned. Before your horn so rudely interrupted me, I told the People of Anctapolepl that I had come to offer my allegiance to the Cause to make this city once more one to be proud of. As, no doubt, have you."

Slate looked round the faces in the crowd. It didn't look as if they were going to tear us to little bits. My favourite kind of crowd.

"Of course," said Slate. "What else would I promise them?"

"I tried to do the same." said the Captain. "But I had something that you do not."

Slate stroked his chin. I keep telling people, you need a goatee to pull that off.

"A deep bond of love for each and every person now surrounding you." He chuckled. "Present company excluded, no doubt."

"Present company very much excluded," said the Captain. "And truth be told, I truly loved only one person in this whole godforsaken city. But I had only a fool of a king to please, and the King ruled supreme. You do not have that luxury."

"I am he who speaks to the Gods," said Slate. "I have shown them the might of my inventions, wondrous things beyond their imagination, and they have accepted that I am an ascended being. A demi-god. I hold their lives in my hand. How can these primitives not see that I am destined to lead them to glory?"

"I have been here for less than a quarter of an hour, and I can already tell you three mistakes you have made."

"Pray tell," said Slate.

"Your first mistake is that you do not properly respect these people. You called them primitives just now. You think they are stupid, that you can tell them anything and they will simply swallow it. I assure you, every pair of eyes upon you now is judging you. Your second mistake is that you have moved yourself into the Temple holy to Huitzilopochtli. Nobody, not even the King himself, would presume to do that. It is the dwelling of the Gods. Mortals go there only to ascend to the Gods through death."

"Human sacrifice," said Slate. "It will please you to know that I have put a stop to that barbarous practice. It is wasteful, and unnecessary now that I speak to the Gods directly."

"Using one of those ingenious devices for transmitting your words over long distances? Do you have settings for Huitzilopochtli, Tlaloc and Quetzalcoatl separately, or do they share? How did you persuade them to install one of your devices in the Sun?"

"I lied," said Slate. "I do that often. You were mentioning three mistakes?"

"So I did. Your third mistake is not recognising a good opportunity when it lands in your lap. I can help you influence these people in ways that you would never think of. Help you avoid mistakes that would surely earn you a comfortable lie-down on the altar and an exciting opportunity to see your own heart beating."

"I see. And you would not be seeking to stab me in the back as soon as I put any amount of trust in you?"

"Of course I would," said the Captain, with a friendly smile on his face. "But you would no doubt know of my plans before even I did. You need me if you want to win these people over to your cause."

Slate gave the Captain a good long stare, then quietly laughed to himself. "And you need me if you are ever going to get that airship of yours flying again."

That was either a damn good guess, or Slate knew more than we gave him credit for. After all, our airship was sitting in plain sight on top of a table mountain, and all you had to do to spot her was climb up to the top of the mountain and look to the west. The way she was facing, you could even read the name. Lady I, named after Carl's mother Iris, and also after some priestess from this city who the Captain 'befriended', named Itzel. The name 'Lady I' works for both.

The Captain's face turned to thunder. "Your henchmen shot down my airship. My son, his wife, their little son, all died in the crash as the bridge smashed into the ground. My brave daughter was grievously injured, and died of her wounds five days later. It is a miracle I am here at all, and without Brenda, I too would soon have perished. You are right. I do need you, but all my family and all my hope of survival here alone, died in the crash."

Slate sneered at the Old Man. "That is the fate of all who oppose Prometheus and the New World Order. I will allow you to stay, Alchemist Philip Tennant, but learn that lesson well." And with that, he turned round and strode regally back up the stairs.

The Captain bowed his old head, and managed to contain his tears. He looked up to find someone else had joined us. It was none other than Sabine Moreau. I didn't know her well. She had been working for Prometheus in Paris until Slate's captain of the guard and hell-bitch Hester Klemm, only daughter of Oberst Gustav Klemm, annoyed Carl by torturing and damn near killing his sister. Carl lopped Hester's head off with the kukri now on my hip, and Sabine applied to fill the dead woman's shoes. What she missed in Prussian efficiency, she made up for in madness and sadism. She was smallish, cute, did Savate, and she'd almost dropped both Carl and Alexandra off the airship and into the Mediterranean sea. She walked up to the Captain, and looked at him with big sad brown eyes.

"Oh poor Alexandra," she said. "I'm so sorry that she is dead. Did she suffer long? Did she die in excruciating pain?"

The Old Man only looked at her. The only thing keeping him from wringing this little tramp's neck was the fact that from somewhere much closer than Heaven, Alexandra was looking down on us through a rifle scope, and all she needed to do to ruin Sabine's whole day was to move her finger.

"I suppose I'd better take you to your room," said Sabine, in what she thought was a commanding voice. "Follow me."

"I know where it is," said the Captain, and walked off.

I followed my Captain as he made straight for his old room, and Sabine could only follow us like a little girl walking a dog that turned out to be a lot bigger and stronger than she'd bargained for. He stopped several times on the way to talk to people he knew. Despite him scaring the crap out of them and knocking down their door, they seemed happy to see him. He stood in front of a doorway with only a bead curtain hanging in front. He pushed aside the beads, walked in, stood still in the greenish sunlight streaming in through the stained glass window.

"Itzel," he said, "I'm back."

 

---

 
The room we were in had been the Alchemist's workshop, where he'd made all the gunpowder he'd used to blow the King and his High Priests to Hell. There was a bed on one end with a curtain round it, a work table, chairs round a fireplace. On the other wall were still some of his pots and cauldrons. He grinned at me.

"They've kept it exactly the way I left it." He turned to Sabine. "I do hope you don't mind me staying here?"

"I don't care what hole you crawl into," said Sabine. "You won't be here for long anyway, if I'm any judge."

"Thank you. You are most kind. Brenda? Let's settle in."

Settling in was easy. I dropped my pack in a corner. The Captain didn't have one. We didn't even have any guns. I had borrowed an oversized kukri from Carl, but I wasn't expecting to use that for fighting. I know what to do with it of course, they teach you that sort of thing in the Marines, all part of dismembering your enemies and defiling their civilisations. But against five thousand angry Aztecs, it was for show only. I slowly put the bag with Stranger inside on the floor. I badly wanted Sabine to check what was inside and get her hands scratched to pieces, but she didn't. Disappointing.

"Don't let us keep you, Miss Moreau," said the Captain. "I'm sure you have many pressing tasks to attend to."

She said something in French that I couldn't catch, but the tone was clear. I stepped up to her.

"Get lost, Sabine."

She called me a sallop and walked out of the door.

 
"What's a sallop?" I said.

"A woman who will fornicate with anyone for money."

"That's a load of bull, I'll only do that for True Love!"

"Bravo Miss Lee."

"Or because I damn well feel like it." I looked round the room. "Speaking of which. Am I sleeping on the floor?"

"Most certainly not," said the Captain. "You are the Alchemist's Shieldmaiden, and you will sleep in a proper bed."

I gave the Captain the Evil Eye. "There's only one bed here. That ain't happening, Cap'n."

"Good Lord! What I meant was that we need to get a bunk in here for you."

"How do we do that?"

"We ask for one. Let's go. It won't do to hide indoors. We must be seen, Miss Lee!"

 
We stepped out onto the paved area between the temple and the wall. All round us, people stopped what they were doing and walked up to us. They looked all shy, looking at their feet, carefully reaching out and touching his arm, then quickly drawing back, as if they wanted to know he wasn't a ghost. I got some attention as well. Back in the Corps, I'd have barked them back, but we were all friends here.

I was telling one of the women there how happy I was to be here, and how thirsty this thing was making me, and did they have any beer or something, when a massive guy walked up to me. He was clearly some kind of warrior. You can spot fighter types all over the world. He licked his finger, and rubbed my shoulder. I've killed people for less, but I was being Nice Brenda so I let him live, and only gave him a dirty look. He said something to me and I couldn't understand a word. He pointed at my arm again.

"No you're right, it don't come off."

He said some more words, and pushed back my leather vest. I pushed his hand away, turned to the Captain.

"What's he want?"

The Captain looked at the big guy. He said something.

"He wants to know if your illustrations continue all over your body."

"Oh. What's Aztec for yes?"

"Kema."

"Thank you." I turned to the warrior, then turned back to the Captain. "Oh, and anticipating the next question, what's no?"

"Ahmo. Or ahmotsin for No Sir."

I turned back to the warrior. "Kema."

He grinned, and gestured at my vest.

"Ahmo," I said, and crossed my arms.

He burst out laughing, and if I'd been quick enough, I could have picked up the Aztec for "We'll see about that."

"We were looking for a bed for you," said the Captain.

"Ah." I turned back to the big guy, and made a 'Sleeping' gesture. This of course was very welcome. I turned to the Captain.

"Wot?"

"He wants to engage you in vigorous healthy exercise."

"No he really doesn't! What's Aztec for I'd kick twenty colours of shit out of you?"

"If you think I'm going to stand here and be the interpreter for your warriorly courtship rituals, you are sorely mistaken, young lady. About that bed?"

"You ask him. You're not the one he wants to get naked with."

Captain Tennant put in the request for me, in the local lingo, and the big guy nodded, then walked off with a grin at me that made promises. Great. Hadn't been here for more than an hour and already I'd had someone offer himself to me.

I could get used to living here.

 

---

 
I have a bed! The big warrior came with one of his buddies and put it underneath the window. It's not unheard of that warriors get drafted in to do some heavy lifting. We always grumble about that, affront to our Warrior Spirit and all that, but it's nice to help people in ways other than blowing their heads off. That said, I'd bet my ass that Big Guy volunteered for this. They put down the bed, looked at me like a pair of puppies, and I made them shove it a few inches closer to the window. Big Guy sat down, patted the bed next to him. Oh come on! To get me in bed with you, you gotta do more than carry the thing to my bedroom. What am I, a sallop?

I did the only thing I could do. I put my boot on the bed between his legs, bent down over him, my face two inches away from his.

"Ahmo."

He just grinned at me. I stepped away, jerked my head towards the door.

"Get lost."

He got up, slapped his friend's shoulder and they made for the door.

"Hey," I said. He looked back at me. "Thanks."

"Any time," he said, or something like that. He thumped his chest. "Tupoc."

I thumped my chest. "Brenda."

So now I have a bed. There's even a curtain to go in front of it. Nobody gets to see what, if anything, I have tattooed on my butt.

Unless I want them to of course.

 
A few moments later, there was someone at the door, a woman named Ixtli. She was carrying pieces of cloth, needle and thread, pieces of rope for measuring. She talked to the Captain, and showed him the cloth. The Captain turned to me.

"She is here to fit me with some proper Alchemist's robes."

"What, Slate is playing dress-up with you?"

"Not Slate. One of the High Priests is giving me this as a welcome present."

"You've got friends in high places."

He looked at the window. "More than you can imagine. More than even I could imagine."

Ixtli wasted no time. The robes were woven of blue wool, and all she had to do was make them fit. I thought of the French seamstress who'd fitted me with my nice leather outfit. She had all sort of modern tools, but Ixtli could have given her a run for her money. In no time, the robes looked like they were specially made for him. The Captain made a big show of feeling the sleeves, showing me how well the robes fit him, the pictures of birds and snakes on the back. He spoke a few words to the woman. She giggled, and almost blushed. She bowed her head with that kind of gleam in her eye, stepped out of the door and was gone.

"What did you tell her?" I said.

The Captain was still looking at the beaded curtain. "I said, these robes are beautiful, and so are you."

"Keep your mind on the job, Captain."

He laughed. "That is rich, coming from the woman who all but jumped into the lap of the first warrior she laid eyes on."

"What, Tupoc? He's pretty, I'll give you that, but there's no way he's getting anywhere near me." I looked round the room. It was a nice room. The green glass window must have been priceless. "They are being nice to us. Why? We just barged in like we owned the place. Anyone come and blow up my door, I'd kick him out pretty damn quick, with some bullets behind to keep 'em moving. Why don't they?"

"I am the Alchemist. The only person who knew that I caused the explosion that killed the King is dead, and many people thought I died with the King and his priests." The Captain got a faraway look in his eyes. "People here like me, and I never realised."

"We'll know for sure when first they feed us. If we don't drop dead, we're gonna be alright."

"Poison is not their style. They are more the stabbing kind." He turned to me. "We'll be invited to dinner soon. Don't eat meat dishes."

"What, they'll cook up one of their virgins for us?"

"Ha. No. But meat is a luxury here. Abstaining from meat is a virtue. I'll bet you Slate doesn't know that. If they press you to try some, then do, but only a small bit."

"Dare I guess what creature?"

"Guinea pig, most likely. They are a delicacy here. But the tlaxkalli are wonderful, if you can handle your chillies."

"I live for chillies. What's the strategic plan Captain?"

"For the moment, we try to make friends with as many of the people here as we can. Convince them that we are here for them. And we are. I want to set them free, Brenda. Show them that they do not need anyone else to rule them. And then, we leave."

"Even if that means they're going to start cutting each other's hearts out again?"

"Hm." The Captain's single eye gleamed at me. "Maybe we can introduce them to the technique of kneeling, folding your hands, and closing your eyes to commune with the Divine."

"And nobody dies? Where's the fun in that?"

 

---

 
Sabine came back and demanded that we follow her on pain of death, or worse, going to bed with no supper. We followed her up the stairs to the temple.

Even if the Captain hadn't outright told Slate, I still would have felt it. We were doing something wrong. Like swearing in Church. We entered the temple, and there was a dinner table in full sight of one of those nightmare statues. Huitzilopochtli he was called. The Sun god. A warrior god. I like to think of myself as a warrior. In the Corps, we used to talk of warrior spirits, and it's almost, almost a joke. We don't use swords anymore. Hell, we don't even use knives as a weapon. We don't fix bayonets to our rifles anymore. When you have to go hand to hand, you've let the Enemy get too close.

When you fight, really fight with blades, there's no way you won't get cut. There's no way it ain't gonna hurt. Back in the day of swords, bravery was to get cut, to get bloody, and still keep fighting. It's changed a little now. Your enemies are far away. You can kill them without even looking into their eyes, and they can kill you. Bravery now is to get out of your nice warm foxhole, and seek out your enemy before he sees you, knowing that you're dead if he does. It's still the same thing. You and the Enemy are doing the same thing, knowing that one or both of you aren't going to see another sunrise. And still, when the order comes, you get up, you raise your weapon, you say a quick prayer, and you go. Whether you're praying to Jesus or Huitzilopochtli, makes no difference.

Magister Slate is a clever man, but he doesn't understand that, and I do. That's why that Tupoc guy and I can joke together, without knowing a word of each other's language. That's why Slate will never rule these people.

 
At the table were the Captain, me, Slate, the head of the new Aztec Jäger named Ostwald, and three of the local priests. Sabine had run off, no doubt to go through our things to see if we had any weapons or notes to ourselves about our evil plans.

The food was good. Beans tomatoes and potatoes wrapped in a maize pancake, oat meal couscous with herbs and spices, and some sort of small four-legged creature that I stayed away from by the Captain's orders. The only thing was that they'd hidden all the actual flavors with lots of salt and chillies. We were drinking water, which as any fool knows is damn useless against hot chillies.

There was a young girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, who hovered around us, filling our cups, handing us our bowls and plates. She talked to Slate and the Old Man in French. Great. I know exactly one word of French, and to use that wouldn't be nice. Poor girl was doing her best.

Americans aren't exactly known for picking up foreign lingo. In the opinion of this Shieldmaiden, I'm not doing too bad with German and Korean. I got billeted there, that's why. Captain Tennant was speaking English with Slate, Nahuatl with the priests, and French with our servant girl. Apart from the English it quickly turned into a wall of sound to me, even if sometimes a word would jump out.

 
"You do not understand?" Slate waved his arm at the whole city. "One must treat the natives of any place according to their abilities. If we hadn't housed the Africans in proper buildings, then they would still be sleeping under animal skins held up with sticks. The African has a strong back, but a weak mind. Hence, they are good only as beasts of burden. Compare that to the people here! When you have a moment, admire the masonry. You will not find a seam large enough to push a knife into, and not a speck of mortar! This temple itself is aligned precisely with Stella Polaris. Observe that hole in the ceiling. On midsummer's day, the light falls all the way from the top of the volcano to the bottom of this room, and onto the altar, where the sacrifice's face would be. Imagine the planning and calculations! These people, I can work with. Hence, we are educating the Aztec, and were simply persuading the Africans."

I managed to keep my trap shut. Slate's way of 'persuading' people meant breaking every bone in their bodies one by one, and then sending them back so their friends could see what happened to them. I'd seen the poor wretches after they'd been put through the wringer, and even if I'd never touched any of them, I was with the people who had. I'd never raised finger or voice to help them. If I had, I'd only have joined them. There is a time when you have to stand up and be counted, but if that only means you're going to add one to the number of dead people, then what's the use? That's how oppression works. You need just a handful of ruthless sons of bitches to keep thousands of people in check. There's no way of dealing with the thousands, but one has to be the first one, and the first one you can deal with. Slate knows this as well as any goddamn tinpot dictator anywhere.

So where am I in this sad story?

Am I with the Good Guys because deep inside I think this is all a load of crap, and I'm really really mad about it?

Am I with the Bad Guys because I'm doing nothing about it outside my skull?

Which Guys am I with for wanting to do things that work, instead of making empty gestures that do nothing but get me killed?

 

---

 
We survived dinner. Nobody poisoned us, no thugs came jumping out with knives to murder us, and there were even cups of cocoa afterwards. Xocolatl, they call it, and it tastes like bitter fire. Captain loves the stuff, it reminds him of happy days. We got up, and we walked down the stairs with the High Priest, named Ichtacka. It's hard to tell the boys' names from the girls' names here. Ichtacka's room was a few doors away from ours, and he invited the Captain for a nice hot cup of cocoa.

"My dear, I bid you good night. I'll be fine on my own with Ichtacka here. Maybe you want to familiarise yourself with the place a little?" Captain raised an eyebrow.

"You giving me a recon mission? Anything you want to know specially?"

"I leave that up to you. Any information is welcome. Knowledge is power!"

"Aye-aye Captain."

 
I swear, Sabine was waiting for me in the room across from ours. As soon as I set foot outside the beaded curtain, she was on me like a leech. Leeches give you the creeps, but they are mostly harmless. Pulling them off hurts more than letting them finish and drop off by themselves.

Sabine pushed up to me. "Where are you going, Cherry?"

"Oh hi Sabine," I said. "Looking for the little girls' room. You know where that is?"

"The end of this corridor, right down the stairs, the small white building. If you really need it."

"What are you gonna do? Check the bucket?"

"Did you have to work to become this disgusting, or is that only due to ill breeding?"

"I blame the company I've been keeping."

"Those Anglais, you mean? How are they doing? You don't expect us to believe that story your capitain told us, do you?"

"Believe me or don't, I don't give a rat's ass. They're dead. You know what it's like to drop your friends into a hole, bit by burnt bit?"

"I have people to do that for me."

"And you ain't got no friends."

We got to the latrine. Sabine didn't want to come in with me, and I took my sweet time. I've done my business using nothing but some paper and the Corps-issue entrenching tool, so this place was the lap of luxury. This time of night, I had the place to myself, but there were a dozen holes to sit on, passing the time with your friends. When I got out, Sabine was still there waiting. Her orders were to follow me wherever I went. I should report her to Slate.

I set off at a run, meaning to do a lap of the temple, see where there were lights on, see where Sabine didn't want me to go. I didn't know where exactly Alexandra had set up her sniper's nest, so I couldn't give away her position. Outside the volcano, the rains had started, warm and heavy. I like running in the rain, knowing that in an hour or so, I'll be warm and dry. It's even better when you have someone running with you who hates it as much as Sabine Moreau does. She kept up with me, but didn't have enough wind left to talk. She stumbled, and I caught her before she fell.

"Getting tired Sabine? If you want to call it a day, I'm fine with that."

She replied in French.

"Language, sweetheart. Language."

I sped up a little. The ground was wet, but I could see the water running down into a sewer, no doubt to be saved and sprayed over the crops in dry weather. Slate was right, the builders of this city knew what they were doing. There were lights on in less than a quarter of the dwellings. This city could house tens of thousands of people. Where had they all gone? Surely, you don't send that many people up for a chat with the Gods? You'll have nobody left to till the fields. I stowed that question for later, and rounded the corner back onto the main square. Sabine was still with me, though she was struggling to keep up. I slowed down a little, and set off back to our bedroom. I shook the water out of my hair and found a towel. Sabine was still standing behind me.

"I'm going to turn in now, Cherry, and you ain't invited. Get lost."

She had got her breath back. Not bad for a civilian, but you can't beat the Corps PT. Captain Tennant was still getting wasted on hot chocolate with his new friends. Well I wasn't going to stay up for him.

"You still here Cherry?"

"Do you think you can simply order me to go away when you please?"

"Christ, Sabine. If you need me, you know where I live. Now get."

Sabine decamped, and I sat down at the large wooden table. Knowledge is power, shared knowledge is double the power. I picked up my notebook, and started drawing a map of the city, adding as many details as I could remember, distances, cover, places inhabited and empty, doorways, exits, entrances. When I finally couldn't think of anything else to add, I hid my notebook.

What next? I thought of finding the Captain, but Sabine would be on me like a bad smell the moment I stepped out. It was dark and I wasn't going to find anything with another run outside. I decided the best thing I could do was sleep. Nothing messes up combat readiness like lack of sleep. So I got out of my clothes, got in the bed with my kukri close to hand. I fell asleep listening to the rain.

Godfrey Pike: A cry for help

Please heal my poor daughter - Acting up - Inside and out - Whatever happened to the airship Boreas? - Smile while you are winning

 

LOOK INSIDE YOUR HEAD Linda Davenport reporting

 

The Human soul is vast and complex beyond imagination, impossible to know, impossible to chart. Or is it? There are those who say no. Who can ask you questions about your mother and know exactly what you had for lunch this Wednesday... and why. Prof. Dr. Lutitia McGee is one of those people. Her lectures are only for fourth-years and up due to certain mature subjects. Can't have us immature sixteen year olds sitting there giggling. Mental Studies are a strange discipline. There are no instruments, no measurements to take, nothing hard and fast. All that remains is talking to those with troubled minds. And failing that, Laudanum.

 

---

 
Miskatonic University's Lower Campus is in the middle of Arkham, on the busy Church Street in the trade district. The architecture, like many things in Arkham, has been described as 'grotesque.' Tall stone buildings with barred windows on all floors and doors that would not be out of place on a medieval castle. Not, one cannot help thinking, a welcoming place for those with a troubled mind. Luckily, my pretend daughter Jocelyn Vale was completely sound of mind and body, except for her wish to become a spy, which alone should be reason enough to have one's head examined.

Jocelyn's mental well-being was not our main objective. In a small section of the Armitage Library was the University's expedition office, where Miskatonic University kept the records of their many expeditions. Since that same Library also contained tomes of Ancient and Forbidden Knowledge, knowledge which might drive one insane, it was heavily fortified. Our mission was to gain entry, find all information we could on Miskatonic's airship Boreas, and find out what might have driven them to attack our friends on board Lady I. I would do most of the talking, Jocelyn would be our excuse to enter the University, and Agent Wainwright of the Secret Service would do the actual breaking and entering.

We stepped down from our cab, leaving Agent Wainwright inside to find a room in a nearby inn. It should have been raining, with occasional thunder and lightning, but the afternoon weather was bright and sunny and did not provide a suitably ominous atmosphere. Still, the Secret Service teaches one to adapt to any situation, and Jocelyn fell into her role as a young woman beset by Influences Not Of This World. Her long dark hair fell over one eye. Her face was turned away. One of her hands was by her side, occasionally twitching. I put my hand on her shoulder.

"Let's go, my dear."

Jocelyn said nothing. I gently pushed her towards the Dread Portal. I raised the knocker, let it fall. A few moments passed, then the door opened. An older woman in a dark dress looked at us, nay regarded us. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she let us in, and showed us into a waiting room. There were two sofas. On a side table were two illustrated magazines and an ancient copy of the Arkham Advertiser. Jocelyn stood in the middle of the room, staring at a nondescript point on the wall. Occasionally, she would turn her face in one direction or another, as if trying to catch things moving in the corner of her eye. The effect was disturbing. I sat down on the edge of the sofa, upright, hands on my knees.

The door opened, and a man walked in wearing a white coat. I got to my feet, stepped to Jocelyn's side. I put my arm protectively round her shoulders. The Doctor looked at the papers in his hand.

"Mr... Pike?"

"Yes Sir."

"And this charming young lady is...?"

He tried to look into Jocelyn's eyes, but she brusquely turned her head away, angry with the Doctor for even trying.

"My daughter Jocelyn," I said. We were using our real names, which is always better if you are not actually doing anything illegal.

"Jocelyn. Excellent. My name is Dr. Peaslee."

"No." Jocelyn shook her head.

"No? Please explain."

"You are not real." Her voice was rasping, hoarse, her words interrupted by seemingly involuntary pauses. "You re-flect light only in this re-ali-ty, but not in oth-ers. Con-nected to oth-er. Sound of voice ar-rives one demi-semi-quaver ear-ly. Self-aware-ness shrouded. Con-struct."

"Jocelyn! Stop this nonsense at once." I gave Doctor Peaslee a pleading look. "I am dreadfully sorry, Doctor. Please excuse her. She has been saying things like that ever since..." I shivered. "The Event."

Doctor Peaslee looked at her through widening eyes. "I assure you Sir. This is not the random gibbering of a madwoman, what she says is entirely in accordance with the theories of our Professor Ferdinand Ashley's work on Precambrian multi-physiologies! He will be most interested in what she has to say!" He bowed down to Jocelyn. "My child. You spoke of a... a construct?"

Jocelyn's head snapped round, looking away from the Doctor. "Must. Not. Speak the trigger. Angles of re-ality too close to a-lign-ment. Must not speak!"

"Then don't, my child." Doctor Peaslee put his hand reassuringly on Jocelyn's shoulder. She scowled, shrugged it away. "We will speak of these things later, when it is safe to do so. I will call in our Head Nurse, and she will arrange a room for her."

"Doctor. I must insist that this room be on the ground floor. My poor daughter gets terribly upset when she is too far away from the Earth. She has been sleeping in a bed in our living room ever since what happened to Mildred."

"Of course, of course. We must make her as comfortable as we possibly can. Restore tranquillity to her psyche." Doctor Peaslee took my hand. "I assure you, Mr. Pike, your daughter is in the right hands with us. The collected knowledge of our University is at her disposal."

I gave a relieved sigh. "Thank you, Doctor. You cannot imagine how much weight that takes off my shoulders. I'm sorry to impose on you, but I must insist I stay in her room with her."

"Of course, Mr. Pike. Whatever makes our poor patient more comfortable."

 
Doctor Peaslee called in the Head Nurse, and together we brought poor Jocelyn to her room in the Richard Upton Pickman Dormitory. It was as bleak as the rest of the University, except for a few vivid paintings of pastoral scenes hanging on the wall. We were given a light dinner of indistinct vegetables and potatoes with a tiny sliver of mutton, and then Jocelyn was put to bed. The head nurse came back, bearing a tray with a glass of water and a small saucer with two white pills. She gave the pills to Jocelyn. I jumped to Jocelyn's side.

"Pardon me?" I said. "What is that medicine?"

"Only a mild sedative, Mr. Pike. To help her sleep. We often find it necessary to calm our patients somewhat on their first night."

Jocelyn's eyes turned to me. I gave her a tiny nod. She swallowed the pills, drank some water from the glass. The nurse smiled at her, patted down her blanket, left the room. I stepped to the door, listened, walked back to the sick bed of Jocelyn Vale.

"Well," I said, "We're in."

Jocelyn laughed quietly. "Suckers!"

"So far, so good. Are you comfortable dear?"

She ran her fingers over a steel ring attached to the side of the bed. "That's for attaching straps. So I don't fall out of bed. They're so... nice here. I feel all warm and cared for."

"Only the best for my daughter."

Jocelyn smiled. "Do you have any children?"

"No. I never married. In this world, that would be a cruel thing to do to a spouse."

"How do you know for sure? Have you never ravished one of those femmes fatales?"

"Not in this century. The Service frowns upon the practice. Also, these seductresses are smart enough not to fall pregnant."

I stepped over to the window. It was locked, but I had come prepared. I pulled out my lock picks and set about poking at the lock. It took me a while, not because it was a particularly difficult lock, but because it hadn't been opened in years. I dripped a little oil in the mechanism.

"I have a hairpin if you want one."

"No thank you."

I put a little more force on the lock, and it opened with a tiny grinding noise. With some effort, I slid open the window. I pulled my cigar case out of my pocket and clicked it open to reveal a pair of binoculars. It had been a parting gift from Quentin, and was inscribed 'To a future of watching birds.' You can get rubbish toy versions of this instrument, but the optics on this model were top notch. I scanned the facade of the Armitage Library. It had been modelled on an ancient Greek temple, with its tapered columns making it seem taller to the eye. All the windows had heavy bars. It looked impenetrable, but in my experience, most impenetrable fortresses end up being penetrated regardless.

"Ah." I said.

"Mmh?" said Jocelyn.

"There is an unbarred window underneath the eaves on the South side. I think young Agent Wainwright will have no problem reaching it."

"That's very clever of him. Are they going to teach me how to do that?"

"I would imagine so." I closed the window and walked back to Jocelyn. "Breaking and entering are key skills for any operative."

She didn't say anything for a while, stared at the crucifix above the door. Her eyes turned to me.

"With skills like that, how will they keep me from using them for things that aren't... good?"

I pulled up a comfortable chair to her bed, sat down. She looked at me, sleepy from the sedative. What exactly was she asking?

"What do you mean?"

"When I'm done training, I'll know how to break into houses, without leaving a trace. I'll know how to walk into a place, steal their secrets, and walk out again, and nobody can stop me. I could steal anything, I could rob a bank!"

I had to smile. "Banks are only for the advanced classes. Believe it or not, it's not easy even for us to liberate banks of their bars of gold. We tend to leave that to the politicians."

Jocelyn took a deep breath, slowly let it out. "Today, I convinced someone that unthinkable, unspeakable things exist in my head. Because they took pity on me, I'm now in a warm bed, and we can go and explore the place and find out their secrets." She looked at me with dark brown eyes. "We are doing this for the right reasons. We need to know what happened to Boreas, and what happened to Miss Tennant. These people won't tell us if we ask, and here we are. We're doing good."

"We are." We weren't here to deprive Miskatonic of anything valuable. We weren't here to destroy anything they held dear. We only needed to know certain things that they would want to keep secret if it turned out they were working against us. We were not here to harm them.

"But we could," said Jocelyn. "We could steal one of those weird books of theirs. This isn't a bank. We could get rich selling their things to... whoever. How will they stop us from doing that?"

"They being the Service, you mean?"

"Yes." She frowned. "I should have said we, shouldn't I?"

Not yet. There was still time for Jocelyn to look at the world as we old spies know it, and retreat, missing a lifetime of adventure, but keeping her conscience and innocence intact. Showing her that was the real reason why she was here. We are not always the heroes of our story. The end may justify the means, but some of those means are dire indeed. I pulled the blanket over her, stroked her hair.

"They won't," I said.

 

---

 
At around midnight, as I sat dozing, there came a slight tapping at the window. I opened it and let Wainwright in. He was dressed in night camouflage, looking like some kind of raven.

"Good evening Professor. How's things?"

"All quiet and still. I may have found you a way into the library."

I showed him the window, and he gave a short nod.

"I'll climb up the tower here and shoot a line across." He looked at Jocelyn, fast asleep. "How's our daughter doing?"

"Admirably. She convinced one of the scientists here that she is beset by eldritch influences."

"Isn't that rather like convincing a duck that it can float on water?"

"True. But I dare you to look at her in full flow and not think there is something badly wrong with her."

Wainwright quietly stepped to the door, listening.

"Did she not need it in writing at some point that she's not crazy?"

"I think that was only to reassure people. Good luck."

 
Wainwright returned maybe two hours later. I looked up from the Arkham Advertiser. He pointed.

"What's the weather like tomorrow?"

"Sunny, dry, mild breeze, with possible showers of frogs in the afternoon. The usual. Did you find what you were looking for?"

"I did. I only got a quick look at the papers, but I have photographs of every page."

"Good. Take nothing but photographs, leave not even footprints, kill nothing but your designated targets. Not too much trouble I hope?"

"I'm afraid I broke a window. I expect they will put up a 'No Ball Games' sign soon." Wainwright shook his head. "This place is insane! They have a whole section of books on the sexual rituals in doomsday cults. Another section on Unpronounceable Cults, and there's a warning that reading these texts may induce nausea, vomiting, vertigo, death, insanity, and the destruction of not only your own soul, but those of the people around you. Bestiaries of prehistoric creatures, of this and... other realities."

"In other words, made up."

Wainwright waved a finger. "These people do not 'make up' things. They are granted visions from Beyond the Veil, through a variety of interesting chemicals. They are made up with sodding bells on."

"As a precaution." I raised my hand. "How many tentacles am I holding up?"

"Hah! A trick question. Your species have writhing prehensile digits with opposable thumbs. I had them grafted onto my arms specially to blend in."

"Good. You pass the test. Did you find the expedition office?"

"I did." Wainwright chuckled. "There is a sign saying 'No library books beyond this door.' They must be pleased that they have office space in such a prestigious building. It's astoundingly neat, tidy, and well organised. Took me all of two minutes to find what I was looking for. Someone in there wanted to make it absolutely clear where the madness ends."

"Good. Anything interesting?"

"I got the mission briefs. They specifically designate Lady I as 'Friendly, assist when needed.' So why Captain Gaskin started shooting at them, I don't understand."

"Maybe they shot first. I don't know. Maybe there was a third airship. Stranger things have happened. Anything else?"

"I have their ship's log up until Caracas, where they took on fuel and lifting gas, then proceeded south further into Brazil. If Lady I was travelling with them, it doesn't say. I also took a look at the muster roll. There's something strange there. One of the names was crossed out. O'Rourke."

"He is the one who fell overboard. Accidental, I believe."

"Yes, I remember. But the name above that wasn't just crossed out, it was blacked out with ink. They didn't want anyone to know that name."

"Interesting. The list was alphabetised, I assume?"

"Captain Gaskin first, then officers, then the rest."

"So we can discount any non-officer with a name starting with O-R and further. That eliminates roughly half the world."

"Not a bad result for a night's work, don't you think?" Wainwright made for the window and opened it. "Now I will return to my lair and develop the pictures. I'll let you know what comes out."

"Good night, Wainwright."

I sat down again, pulled a blanket over my knees. The chair was nice and comfortable, and in a few minutes, I was asleep.

 

---

 
When I woke up, Jocelyn was sitting up in her bed. I felt like my joints had been screwed on too tightly. Creaking and groaning, I set the machinery in motion.

"Good morning Jocelyn."

"They are watching us," said Jocelyn, in character, either to avoid being surprised or because she had noticed something.

"Who are they?"

"Their thoughts are hungry."

"Beware, Jocelyn."

I got up, walked to the door, listened. Almost as if someone had seen or heard me, there was a knock on the door. I waited a few seconds, then opened it. Outside were Doctor Peaslee, and another man who I didn't know.

"Good morning Mr. Pike."

I stepped back, and the men came in. Dr. Peaslee pointed at his colleague and introduced him as Dr. Ferdinand Ashley, the expert on Other Worlds and their connection to ours. One of those connections was sitting up straight in bed, staunchly looking away from us.

"Mr. Pike? May I?" Dr. Ashley pointed his hand at Jocelyn, who shook her head in short jerks, looked away.

"Jocelyn?" I said. "There is someone here to speak with you."

"Not. Safe. He is pres-ent in too many re-ali-ties. Must not open."

Dr Ashley sat down on Jocelyn's bed and reached out to turn her face towards him. Jocelyn gave an ear-splitting shriek and slapped away his arm.

"No! Cracks in the wall-pa-per between re-ali-ty. Must not pry. Must not invite!"

"Doctor," I said, hesitant yet firmly. "You are upsetting her. Please be careful. She is not herself. There have been... accidents."

"I understand," said Ashley. "My hypothesis is that this poor girl has unwittingly become a connection between this and God knows how many alternate realities. Given the circumstances, she is holding up very well, very well indeed." He turned to me. "Using our experimental apparatus and certain mind-broadening substances, I myself have once dared to look into a dimension beyond our own, co-existing in the same four-dimensional space, but removed by only a hair's breadth in the fifth. The experience is profoundly disturbing, and the reek of wrongness is enough to unsettle an experienced man of science, let alone a young impressionable girl like her."

"I will re-ject your words and the mean-ing be-hind them." Jocelyn rocked back and forth in her bed. "Must nev-er meet a-gain! Go away! Go away now! Filth and rotten!"

Ashley sighed. "She is too agitated now to take accurate readings. We will have to wait until she calms down." He put a hand on my shoulder, a gesture I welcomed no more than Jocelyn did. "It is plain that this young woman was touched by the influence of beings that I will not name. We will help her, Mr. Pike. You were well advised to put her into our care. We will bring this unholy connection to the surface, and close it. You have my word!"

"Thank you, Doctor," I said. "You are my last hope of restoring my dear daughter Jocelyn to her former self. It is a great comfort to me that the matter is now in your hands."

Jocelyn covered her eyes with her hands. "Can. Still. See! Take it away! Away!"

Doctor Ashley nodded. "Alas, there is nothing I can do this moment. I will prepare my measuring apparatus... and myself. I will return when I am ready."

And with that, he took his leave and walked out of the door, taking Doctor Peaslee with him. Jocelyn fell back into the pillows. I poured her a glass of water and she drank it in one long draught.

"Thank you." She gave me the glass back. I refilled it. She raised it half way to her lips, lowered it again. "What a git!"

"It would seem that the Good Doctor himself is in need of a qualified psychologist."

Jocelyn emptied her glass. "And a good kick up the arse from a couple of girls I know. Poor feek and weeble girly minds can't possibly deal with these Influences, but I can, because I'm a big strong Man."

"Forgive him. He has seen things beyond... Sight itself."

"Well, I can name some things he hasn't seen." Jocelyn looked at her glass. It was still empty. She put it on the side table. "Nor will he if he doesn't wise up."

I stepped over to the window and looked outside. "I wonder about this 'apparatus' he is talking about. I don't like the idea of you being measured up by it."

"We're going to be out of here before that happens, aren't we?"

"Wainwright is reading through the Boreas files as we speak. Maybe he'll find something to make him return to the files. But we should be out of here no later than tomorrow morning." I turned round, sat on the windowsill. "You are about to make a miraculous recovery, I think. Mustn't make too much of a spectacle. We don't want them to start wondering why we are really here."

"Surely, the Nameless Horrors will flee my poor addled girly mind in terror when they see the likes of Doctor Ashley turn up?" Jocelyn looked at me with big brown eyes. "Father? Where am I? Why am I here? Who are these people?"

"Something like that. At some time, they will notice the broken window in the Library, and I don't want there to be anything unusual to give away the game."

"Unusual?" Jocelyn raised an eyebrow.

"To local standards, which, I admit, are somewhat... eccentric."

Jocelyn looked at her feet, moving them under the blanket with an amused gleam in her eyes. She turned to me.

"It must be nine o'clock, and I'm still in bed. I'm pulling the noses of all these Men of Science. I get to do and say things that'd get me locked up in a padded room back in Ipswich. Is it always this much fun?"

I sat back down in my comfortable chair. I took her hand, partly because that's what worried fathers do, partly to reassure myself that Jocelyn was here, now, real.

"No it's not," I said.

Alan Wadcroft: Trusting Fools

Omar Khouri - Whatever happened to Mrs. Moghadam? - Who are these Tennant people? - The mechanical perspective - Mind reading exercises

 

LOOKING IS ALLOWED, STARING IS FROWNED UPON Rina Prescott reporting

 

We are enjoying the last warm days of Summer, and the warm woolly jumpers of Autumn remain in our closets for now. As you may have noticed, some of us girls are outgrowing last year's clothes. The knee length plaited skirt may in some cases no longer touch the ground when kneeling as per regulations. Certain expansions around the upper body areas may cause our uniform blouses to fit somewhat tighter than they once did. Gentlemen, we are aware. Larger skirts and blouses will be acquired as a matter of priority. Until then, please keep your eyes and appreciative comments to yourself. Thank you.

 

---

 
I was working in my room, reading through the results of an alchemical experiment that for once had not caused the wholesale destruction of apparatus. Prof. Lowe's post-grads had finally mastered the art of cramming an unreasonable number of nitrogen bonds into a compound that would, if stabilised enough, enable us to blast large amounts of coal with no more than a thimble full of explosive.

There was a knock on the door, and I opened it on Chancellor Malcolm Munroe and a gentleman of Arabic appearance who was introduced to me as Omar Khouri. Mr. Khouri was a diplomat sent us by the Secret Service, and his job was to tidy up the awful mess with Mrs. Najilah Moghadam, the daughter-in-law of Mr. Bouzid Moghadam.

After Mrs. Moghadam's body had been found, there had been a lively discussion between the British Authorities and the Government of Khartoum, who had invited us to their courts for 'A Few Questions.' I'm glad to say this was denied. Once the Khartoum authorities have you, no amount of habeas corpus will get you out. We habemus your corpus, and you can't have it back. Most of the noise had died down, but Khartoum had not forgotten us.

In a week or so, Mr. Khouri would travel to Khartoum for some polite conversation. But first, he needed some information from us.

 
Chancellor Munroe introduced us, and left us to it. I offered Mr. Khouri a chair and a cup of tea. He pulled out a notebook.

"Good morning, Professor. I'll be as brief as possible. There are a few things I need to know from you. But first, let me tell you what I already know." He leafed through his notebook. "I know that Mrs. Najilah Moghadam is dead. She was shot through the head with a nine millimetre firearm. Her bones were found in the ruins of a burnt-out warehouse on Paarden Eiland." Mr. Khouri's voice was even. "Her body was no longer identifiable, but several of her jewels were recognised. They were made for her specially on orders of her husband, Mr. Ahmad Moghadam."

I knew better than to argue. I said nothing.

"I know that Mrs. Najilah Moghadam travelled from Khartoum to Cape Town on board the airship Lady I, owned by Captain Philip Tennant of the Tennant Airborne Scientific Transport and Expedition Company. We know this because according to the authorities, Lady I was the only airship to arrive from Khartoum the week Mrs. Moghadam disappeared." Mr. Khouri looked at me. "Khartoum does not have many dealings with Cape Town."

I kept my silence, preferring to hear Mr. Khouri out. He continued.

"I have been told that Captain Tennant intended to sell Mrs. Moghadam as a slave, to be used for purposes civilised men do not wish to dwell upon."

"That, Mr. Khouri," I said, "is a load of old tosh. Captain Tennant is in the business of transporting scientific expeditions. He is not in the slave trade!"

Mr. Khouri gave me a little smile. "It does seem a little far fetched, even though Captain Tennant only founded his company..." he consulted his notebook. "Seven months ago. We must evaluate all information given to us, Professor Wadcroft. One of those pieces of information is that Mrs. Moghadam and her companion were savagely tortured on board, in ways carefully designed not to spoil their bodies for their intended use."

"Nonsense!" I said, with some heat. "Mrs. Moghadam was treated with the utmost respect and kindness from the moment she stepped on board Lady I up until the moment she decided to leave."

Khouri made a small note in his notebook. It was in Arabic so I could not read it. He looked up at me. "What about Mrs. Moghadam's companion? I have been presented with compelling evidence that she was not treated as kindly as you imply. There were signs of... pardon me..." He looked through his notes. "A shot wound to her side, various cuts bruises and scrapes, and substantial damage to her shoulder muscles." He looked up at me. "Consistent with the Christian torture method of strappado. I assume you know what I am speaking of?"

"None of the Tennants or their crew performed strappado on anyone, Mr. Khouri."

Mr. Khouri immediately spotted the one thing that my words did not say.

"But there were more people on board than the Captain and his crew, were there not? Perhaps one of them did the deed? But never mind that. Let us return to the late Mrs. Moghadam. The evidence recovered from her bones reveals that she was shot precisely in the middle of her forehead from maybe three to five yards away. There were only two or three people on board who could have accomplished such a feat." He looked into my eyes. "Do you know who shot her?"

I looked back at him. "No."

Mr. Omar Khouri sat back in his chair, closed his notebook. I had the impression of being weighed and measured by a precise instrument.

"Professor," he said. "It is easy for many people to be offended when they are lied to, but I am not one of those people. As a diplomat, I am often lied to, and indeed I have myself told many lies in the course of my duties. I am above such emotions. I understand only too well why people do, and in many cases, I cannot blame them for trying. This, Professor, is not one of those cases. When my job here at Algernon is done, I will travel to Khartoum, to do my very best to convince Mr. Bouzid Moghadam, the governor, that Captain Tennant, his family and crew, and all those on board Lady I, are not his enemy. I have had dealings with Mr. Moghadam before, and he is one of the most shrewd people it is my pleasure to know. It is extremely difficult to deceive him, and it would be inadvisable even to try without a compelling reason."

Mr. Khouri picked up his teacup, looked at me over the rim. "I must know the truth. If you have in fact harmed his son's beloved wife, then I will be forced to make him believe that you have not, and to do that, I must lie convincingly. If the truth is that you have not harmed her, my job will be considerably easier." He put down his teacup. "Now. Do you have anything to tell me?"

I thought a moment, and decided to tell the truth.

"Very well then. Algernon University and those on board Lady I are at conflict with an organisation named Prometheus. Captain Tennant has pursued them all over the world, from Russia to Sudan, to Cape Town, even to South America. At one point, one of their agents, named Sabine Moreau, stowed away on board in an attempt to murder everyone on board and steal Lady I. We were fortunate enough to capture her."

Omar Khouri turned to a fresh page on his notebook and made notes. "Where did you capture her?"

"She stowed away on board in Paris, and came out of hiding above the Mediterranean to attack Alexandra and Carl while they were servicing an access hatch. Previously, she had sabotaged our engines, leaving us adrift."

"Hmm." Mr. Khouri made a few more notes. "What did you do to her after you captured her?" He gave me a piercing look. "I am especially interested in the events that damaged her shoulders. Who tortured her, and why?"

I hesitated. Would he believe me if I told him? I was not there when it happened, and only knew because Carl had told me. I did not want Mr. Khouri draw the wrong conclusions if I misspoke.

"Professor," said Mr. Khouri. "Besides your faculty members, Captain Tennant, and his family, two more persons were on board. One was a Miss Brenda Lee, who has... let us say an interesting history, and Mr. James T. Riley. Who, Professor?"

I took a deep breath. "It was Riley, to force from her where Slate was hiding. Miss Lee was the one who stopped him. We promptly gave Miss Moreau all due medical care, and Mr. Riley was asked to leave when we arrived in Khartoum."

"Most commendable." It was impossible to tell whether Mr. Khouri was being sarcastic or not. "How did Mrs. Moghadam get on board Lady I?"

"I don't know. She simply appeared on our doorstep, and the Captain was convinced that she would be stoned to death if she were to fall into her husband's hands."

Mr. Khouri sneered. "Why would Mr. Ahmad Moghadam want to do a thing like that, Professor? He was completely devoted to her."

"According to Mrs. Moghadam, there was an allegation of some sort of indiscretion between her and Agent Wainwright. Completely unfounded, of course."

"Wainwright? He was on board as well?"

"He joined us the same day Mrs. Moghadam did. Do you know him?"

"Professionally yes," said Mr. Khouri, with a little private smile. "Please continue."

"We were holding Sabine Moreau in one of the cargo holds. Mrs. Moghadam spoke with her, and was convinced to join her cause. They left together when we arrived in Cape Town."

"Simply left? How did Mrs. Moghadam achieve this? Surely, you had Miss Moreau under guard?"

I looked straight into Omar Khouri's eyes. "I believe Mrs. Moghadam... incapacitated the guard."

"Incapacitated." Mr. Khouri raised an eyebrow.

"Yes."

"How, exactly?"

"Um," I said. We university professors are known for explaining the most complex concepts with exactly the right words.

"Ah," said Mr. Khouri. Diplomats are well known for their ability to hear things left unsaid.

We shared a moment of quiet mutual understanding that all that needed to be said, had been said on the matter.

"After the ladies left, what did you do?"

"We sent out a search party, of course. Not only for Sabine and Mrs. Moghadam, but for information on Prometheus. Wainwright, Miss Lee, Carl, and Alexandra. They spotted Mrs. Moghadam and set off in pursuit. Alexandra could not keep up, owing to her legs, and was separated. Sabine and Mrs. Moghadam captured her, and took her to a warehouse on Paarden Eiland, for interrogation and as a hostage." I looked at Mr. Khouri over steepled fingers. "Luckily, she only suffered minor injuries to her face."

"Compared to Mrs. Moghadam's injuries."

"Alexandra was fighting for her life, Mr. Khouri."

"I believe you, Professor." He sounded like he meant it. "This world is a violent place."

"Indeed. Mrs. Moghadam was killed. Miss Moreau was wounded, and escaped. Alexandra found the Hermes device and unwisely alerted Slate to her presence. Slate directed the device to destroy itself and burnt down the whole warehouse."

"And so ended Mrs. Najilah Moghadam's brief stint of freedom." Mr Khouri said. "Allah yarhemha."

"By her own hand, Mr. Khouri. Nobody told her to take the side of our enemies."

Mr. Khouri's cup was empty and he put it down on my desk. His voice was quiet, gentle, sad. "Defiance, professor. A caged bird will eventually resign itself to its fate. But not she. Did you not say Miss Tennant unwisely alerted Slate to her presence? That too was an act of defiance. Why do we admire this in our men, but not in our women?"

I picked up the teapot, refilled his cup. "If you do not mind me saying, Mr. Khouri. You do not sound like what I've been led to believe about Muslims."

"We are legion, Professor, as are the Christians. Surely you do not expect us all to hold the same beliefs?"

"There is a saying that three Christians are a church, and four Christians are a schism. I assume it is the same for Muslims."

"A safe assumption." Mr. Khouri sipped his tea. "Thank you, Professor. I think I know what I need to. For now."

"I am sorry that I could not make your job any easier."

"We can only take what we are given." He stood up, and we shook hands. "Inshallah, we will meet again."

 

---

 
"What ho Wadcroft!"

Margaret was heading my way with a sense of purpose in her step. She grabbed my arm and pulled me in the direction of the Faculty cafeteria. One of the perks of being Prof. Dr. Margaret Enderby was that the cafeteria staff had long since given up resisting and now gave her a pot of tea without question where we mere mortals had to order our tea by the cup. But gracious and magnanimous was Margaret, and she allowed me to share in her bounty.

"Had this man visit me, named Omar Khouri."

"Ah yes. Mr. Khouri. What did he want from you?"

"Asked me a lot of questions about our Alexandra. How long I've known her. Her character. Her upbringing. Her temperament."

I bowed over to Margaret and whispered. "Whether she habitually shoots Arabic princesses, that sort of thing?"

"You know Wadcroft, you can tell a lot from someone's questions. Sometimes, they tell you more than you tell them."

"What do you mean? Leading questions? Trick questions? How you felt when Alexandra told you she'd shot Najilah?"

"Something like that. I gave him the whole story not only about Alexandra, but also Philip, Carl, Fatin, little Raage, Brenda." She grinned at me. "Philip and all his children, and his children's children."

"I'm sure he now admires them as much as do we."

"How could he not?" Margaret refilled her cup, poured the last of the milk into it. "But the important question is, what kind of story is Mr. Khouri trying to build? What will he tell Mr. Moghadam? From his questions, I think he's trying to paint Sabine as the main guilty party."

"And rightly so. She is the one who, for want of a better word, seduced Najilah."

"Hah! There is no better word. Seduce her is exactly what she did. Sabine Moreau knew exactly how to play Najilah."

I coughed a little. "Do you think Sabine was... um... romantically interested in Mrs. Moghadam?"

Margaret thought a moment. "From what I know of her, Sabine sees people as playthings. She is an expert at manipulating people. Toying with them. Owning them. She may have wanted Najilah as a new toy. I doubt there was any love there. Sabine Moreau may not even be capable of love."

"I know what you mean. Schmidt, before he went batty and popped into care for a while, talked about it to me once. Some people can feel others' pain no more than a man with no eyes can see. They can burn people alive with a happy smile on their faces. Frightening stuff."

"Yes. She would make an excellent villain in Mr. Khouri's story. If only it weren't for the fact that our Alexandra pulled the trigger. It was Sabine's weapon that killed Najilah. Maybe he'll try to convince Bouzid that Najilah betrayed Sabine and she shot her for it." Margaret put down her cup. "Or maybe that is what Mr. Khouri wants us to think. Once he crosses the Sudanese border, his story may well change. Bouzid already thinks that Lady I is a place of dread."

"What is it that our Mr. Khouri wants?"

"That, my dear Alan, is the heart of the matter." She sighed, gathered up our empty cups. "And Mr. Khouri is not one to give up his secrets easily."

I tapped the table in a thoughtful manner. "How could we make sure?"

Margaret got up, picked up the tray to bring it back to the counter. She stopped, grinned at me over her shoulder. "I know exactly who we need."

 

---

 
"Would you believe that man?" Miss Felicia Sunderland, personal assistant to our celebrated engineer Andrew Parsons, could have boiled her tea without a single lump of coal. "Simply sitting there, asking Andrew, Andrew of all people, whether he ever killed anyone?"

"That is a little... insensitive," I said.

Miss Sunderland blew out a few flames. "You don't ask a soldier if he's ever killed anyone, and soldiers are meant to kill people! It's their job!"

"Is Andrew all right now?"

Miss Sunderland came off the boil, continuing to seethe quietly. "Mild sedative and bed. He will be better once he writes it all up."

"What else did Mr. Khouri want to know?"

"He asked me mostly about the conditions on board, both before and after we captured that horrible woman and after Mrs. Moghadam came on board."

"What did you tell him?

"The truth." Miss Sunderland looked into her teacup. "I know we were on the warpath, but I must admit, I enjoyed our little holiday. I went swimming in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. I bought the most beautiful dress I have ever seen." Her smile faded. "And then we were shot at by a Khartoum airship. Someone came on board intending to murder us all. We contemplated executing her." Miss Felicia shuddered. "But we mustn't grumble must we?"

"Trying times, Miss Sunderland. Trying times for all."

Miss Sunderland looked out of the window to the far west. "And it's not over yet. It won't be over as long as that horrible man Slate is still at large."

I looked out of the window to the West. "That is being worked on. When Andrew completes his report, could I have a copy?"

Miss Felicia's grey eyes twinkled at me. "Is that for your romanticised account of our adventures?"

"Romanticised? I do not romanticise things, Miss Sunderland! I merely collate and somewhat edit what everyone else has written."

"I did enjoy Carl's story of how he met Fatin. High passions in the steaming Sudanese rain forest." Miss Felicia bent over to me. "Did you not embellish that? Not even a little?"

"How? By dwelling on the clay deposits along the White Nile that give it its characteristic colour?"

Miss Sunderland laughed. "That fine sand goes everywhere, doesn't it?"

"All the way down to Lake Victoria."

 

---

 
` This is a report of my interview on //____ with Mr. Omar Khouri.

 
Mr. Khouri asked me how my day was going, and I told him that I was constructing a supporting frame structure for a high-pressure vessel used by the Alchemy department to introduce nitro functional groups to a tetrazole ring. This vessel, empty, weighs five hundred and twenty kilograms, must be connected to several high pressure conduits resistant to corrosive substances, and must be able to move between the heating furnace and the pouring station while being rotated by ninety degrees. This must be operated by a system of Bowden cables from a remote location to avoid personnel being injured by explosions should the reaction exceed expected energy levels. Miss Felicia summarised this as working for the Alchemy department.

Mr. Khouri asked me if I remembered my journey on board the airship Lady I, and I told him that I did. He asked me what happened on board, and I told him that the condensation vessels on the main engines reduced four point eight percent more steam to liquid water in cold climates than they did in warm weather. This is within the expected tolerances and no adjustments need to be made to compensate for atmospheric conditions.

Mr. Khouri asked me who else was on board, and I told him myself, Miss Felicia, Professor Wadcroft, Professor Enderby, Captain Philip Tennant, Mr. Carl Tennant, Miss Alexandra Tennant, Mrs. Fatin Tennant, and Miss Brenda Lee.

Mr. Khouri asked why I did not mention that Mr. Riley was on board, and I told him that Mr. Riley only came on board in Paris. He asked about Agent Wainwright and I told him that he came on board at Khartoum. Mr. Khouri then asked about Mrs. Moghadam, and I told him she came on board at 23:34 local time, and Agent Wainwright came on board at an unknown time before dinner at 18:10 local time.

Mr. Khouri asked me if I noticed anything about Mrs. Moghadam, and I answered that she is 169cm tall, her shoulders are 32cm wide, her hips are 34 cm wide, and her left nostril is connected to her left ear with a gold chain 18cm in length, which would be disallowed in the workshop as a hazard, as would be her attire, which is too loose and would present a risk of being caught in machinery. Mrs. Moghadam later removed the gold chain, but did not replace the loose attire in compliance with workshop regulations. Mr. Khouri asked me what her state of mind was when she came on board, and I told him she did not tell me. He asked me if Mrs. Moghadam looked upset, frightened, or distressed. Miss Felicia advised Mr. Khouri that this was not the correct question to ask me.

Mr. Khouri pointed out that I spoke about Mrs. Moghadam in the present tense, and asked me if I knew that she was dead. I answered I had not seen Mrs. Moghadam since she left, but she was in good health and I had no information from which to induce a change in her condition.

Mr. Khouri then informed me that Miss Tennant had shot her through the head with a firearm, and I told him that he was mistaken since aiming firearms at people is in breach of Rifle Club regulations, which Miss Tennant subscribes to. Mr. Khouri pointed out that people sometimes do not adhere to Rifle Club regulations, referring to a time when someone pointed a 9mm revolver at me. He asked me what I did in response. I was unable to answer because my thoughts became confused and I do not remember them.

Miss Felicia asked Mr. Khouri to leave, which he did. She gave me a glass of water with twenty drops of Morphia and I went to sleep. `

 

---

 
"You want me to do what?" said Prof. Lutitia McGee of Mental Studies.

"Find out what Mr. Khouri's deal is," said Margaret. "See if he's trustworthy. What his motives are."

"You have been talking to him. I haven't. What do you think?"

"I'm not sure," said Margaret. "He seems nice, but he looks... shifty."

"What, because he's an Arab?"

Margaret sneered. "No, because he's a diplomat. And I have to admit he's too slippery even for me." She smiled charmingly at Lutitia. "We need an expert in rummaging about in people's under-consciouses."

"Sub-conscious," said Lutitia. "Don't play stupid with me, Margaret Enderby. I know you know that term."

"Q. E. bloody D," said Margaret. "We need you, Tits. Your hour is come."

"What exactly do you want me to do? Seduce him and withhold my favours till he talks?"

"Oh would you?" Margaret beamed at Lutitia. "That would be splendid!"

"You hold my moral values in low esteem, Margaret."

"To the contrary! In times like these, moral values like yours are exactly what we need. The time for prudery is past, and we must embrace the new age, starting with certain Secret Service diplomats!"

"Heh! Why don't you seduce this Arab then?"

Margaret raised her hands. "Your boobs are greater than mine." She sighed, and the smile faded from her face. "Tits, joking aside. We need to know if we can trust this person. Whether we can tell him things that would be a powder keg in the hands of our adversaries. He's already talked to me, and to Alan, and to Andrew and Felicia. Who knows what he read between the lines, or thinks he did. And you were always ten times sharper than I was when it came to finding out what someone was really thinking. We need you."

Lutitia locked eyes with Margaret. "Now you're just sucking up to me."

"Yes. Tell me I'm wrong, though."

Lutitia stared for a few moments, slowly started to smile.

"All right then. I'll see what I can do."

Alexandra Tennant: Overwatch Position

Getting Comfortable - So small from up here - New supplies - A new friend - No shooting the cute ones - The way to a woman's heart

 

ROBIN HOOD AND HIS MERRY SNIPERS Linda Davenport reporting

 

As those of you in the Algernon Rifle Club have rightly pointed out: Longbows are not rifles, nor are they firearms in any sense of the word. Arrows, as any archer will be happy to explain to you at length, are loosed, never fired. Not even fire arrows are fired. Why then, have two Mary Rose style English longbows appeared in our gun locker? These beautiful artefacts of history were provided to us by the Algernon Archery Club, in exchange for us allowing them to use our shooting range. If you wish to give them a try, you can. Remember that the draw weight of these bows is somewhat in excess of a hundred pounds, and without the apishly strong arms of the less fair sex, it will be a struggle to put an arrow anywhere near the other side of the range, let alone the target. If archery interests you, the Archery Club will gladly lend you one of their recurve or compound bows.

 

---

 
In the rare cases that a sniper is depicted in the theatres, it is always the final shot that is shown. The most dramatic moment. The coup final. They never show the long periods of boredom that go before. I asked my drama teacher why this was, and he said that they wanted people to come back to the theatre. I think this shows a lack of backbone in today's theatre goers. If I can spend days simply staring at a target before finally taking the shot, then so can they.

When a sniper is not shooting people, she is observing. There are two instruments used to do that, three if you count the naked eye. The first is of course the sniper's scope. While there have been successful snipers who used nothing but iron sights, a telescopic sight pulls your target all the way up to your eyeball.

The second is a spotting scope, which is a small handy telescope on a little tripod. There are simple ones for bird watching, but mine is more elaborate and would have been much more expensive, but Riley had looted it from a Prometheus hideout and given it to me. It has a nice large aperture letting in masses of light, a magnification range from four to sixty times, and a reticle that with practice lets you estimate the range to your target to within a few yards. It shows you the height of a man (five foot ten) at various distances, allowing you to estimate with some mental calculations how far away the man is who you want to shoot.

The man I wanted to shoot was, I knew, six foot two. Precision is not the most important thing. It is the only thing. You want your first shot to be lethal, both saving on bullets and giving your target less of an opportunity to run around screaming in fear of their lives. That only makes aiming the next shot more difficult. There is much more to long range sniping than simply holding your rifle steady and putting the crosshairs where you want your bullet to go. As your range increases, smaller and smaller things become more and more important. Bullets fall exactly like a pebble you drop from your hand. It matters whether your target is above or below you. Bullets are pushed aside by the wind. The air here is thick, humid, slowing the bullet down more than in cold arid regions. The very earth rotates beneath bullets, so that bullets you shoot in an Easterly direction will land higher than bullets fired Westward. You have to know all these things, compensate for them. And even then, there is still an element of art, and of luck.

It's similar to telling the future, but instead of Tarot cards, crystal balls, tea leaves, you use highly precise optical equipment, knowledge of physics, attention to detail, and most of all experience. I have paid the hours and hours of practice. The thousands of shots fired at faraway targets. I do not know how many people are better shots than I am. Many no doubt. I only know how good I am myself. Here, in the cursed city of Anctapolepl, in the jungles of Brazil. Here, I am the finger of Death.

 
I had made my home in a disused dwelling with a nice view of the Temple and the main square from high up. I had moved a wooden table to the opposite wall from the window, far enough from the wall that I could lie down with my toes touching. All the snipers with a habit of hanging out of the window have by now been culled from the community. I was sitting on the table, with my scope in one hand, and a strip of smoked tapir meat in the other. My rifle was next to me, ready for use.

Far below, the City of Anctapolepl was going through its daily rituals. They woke up as the first rays of sun streamed down the crater of the volcano, made their breakfast, then went about their daily jobs. There had been new arrivals. The girls now went to a school to learn French and How To Be A Nasty Little Tart from Sabine Moreau. The boys from an age of about sixteen went with a Jäger to be taught the Manly Arts of fighting with or without weapons. Not firearms, strangely. Maybe those would come later.

Nobody had asked Father to pay for the repairs to the front gate, which had been blown apart more than burnt. As far as the people of Anctapolepl were concerned, explosions were things that happened now and then when you have an Alchemist and it was no use grumbling. He walked out into the square with Brenda in tow, chatting with people, giving advice. I aimed my scope at him, and he seemed at ease. Brenda looked tense, clearly assessing the threat posed by each person approaching. He made his way to the Temple stairs and started to climb them, one hand on his artificial knee. He likes to think nobody notices anything unusual about his gait when walking, but climbing stairs is still hard for him. Brenda stayed one step below him, ready to grab him if he should fall. I lost sight of Father when he entered the temple to Huitzilopochtli at the top.

I pushed away my worries and aimed my scope back at the little school where I could see the backs of a few girls about the same age as those in the Algernon Rifle club back in Ipswich. They were copying words from the blackboard inside onto their own slates using a stylus. Even at maximum magnification I could not read what they were writing. Probably something like "Ma tante a eté sacrifiée aux Dieux." I was too far away (seven hundred and four metres) to hear what they were saying.

In short, nothing was happening. I pulled my sketchbook from my pack and turned to the page where I had made a drawing of my view, noting entrances and exits, distances, heights. I verified all my distances again, added a few more, put away my drawing. It was warm, humid. I once again swept my scope over the city below me. The Prussian Jäger had started some sort of competition and I made little bets with myself which of the nicely tanned muscular young men would come out on top. Sadly, my favourite lost his last bout to bad luck, so I did not get to eat my last biscuit. Instead, I tried to remember the words to La belle dame sans merci, and could not remember whether it was "Thee hath in thrall," or "Hath thee in thrall." I decided I preferred the latter. If John Keats wanted to object, he could do so in person.

 
There was some movement down below as Sabine's class finished and the girls came out. Sabine was all smiles and chatted happily with her pupils, especially the one I'd noticed when I first spotted her. It worried me. The idea of two women falling in love had long stopped bothering me, but the idea of one young innocent woman falling in love with a cruel and depraved predator like Sabine bothered me very much indeed. I had watched Sabine seduce Najilah Moghadam in front of me, and killing me would have been the first of their acts as lovers. Sabine's first gift to her. After that, Sabine would have possessed Najilah body and soul, a deadly secret shared between them, only to be brought out when time came for Sabine to pull the leash tight on her new pet. In a way, I had saved Najilah from that fate.

A more wretchedly weak excuse was never made.

I closed my eyes for a moment, willed my thoughts away from the events in South Africa. I jumped when the horn sounded, and Slate and Father came out of the temple. Slate gave one of his speeches in Latin. I could only catch a word or two. I am sure the people far below could understand nothing of it. That was not the purpose in the speech. It was meant to give the people something they would not understand, and yet they would recognise it as profound.

I know that the Church of England was founded mostly so that Henry the Eighth could be divorced from his wife. Given the fate of some of his other wives, that was better for all concerned. But they do speak the Word of God in the people's own language. The no-nonsense C of E has been described cruelly as more of a social club than a place of worship, but it had at least done away with most of the sharp teeth that Rome had put in its churches. Magister Nicholas Slate, on the other hand, was all in favour of sharp teeth in worship.

 
Night fell, and even my sensitive optics couldn't pierce the darkness anymore. I packed away my things, left them in a dark corner, and stepped out. Time to find Brenda for a little chat. I walked round to the uninhabited part of the City, then back round the Temple to where the lights were. I saw Brenda before she saw me in my dark all-environment suit. I only had to wave at her once. We huddled together in the shadow of one of the doorways.

"Can't stay long," said Brenda. "Sabine's on me like flies on shit. Cap'n distracted her by walking out to the front door, but she's not gonna fall for that next time."

"Understood. How are you doing?"

"Good." Brenda laughed. "The bed is soft, the chow is good, the people here are hilarious. Got one admirer already."

"Oh you tart. You're not here to sample the young men, you remember?"

"Heh. All part of the perks and side benefits of a Shieldmaiden. You're only jealous because all you can do is watch."

"Which I do. They are nice to look at, aren't they?"

"Amen, Sister. Anyway. We're in your Dad's old room with the green window. Sabine is guarding us when she can be missed. Captain is trying to find out what exactly Slate wants from this place."

"Gold? Slaves? Soldiers?"

"Could be. Though Slate's plenty rich already. The Captain is also putting Doubt in the minds of the Priests. We got one High Priest called Ichtacka and two Medium High Priests named Yaotel and Xiuhtecuhtli."

"I will absolutely remember those names because I'm that good."

Brenda pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket, gave it to me. "I have your six, Sister. Note from your dad with all the names in." She grinned. "Oh. I doubt it'll mention this seamstress called Ixtli. Don't know how the Old Man does it, but she's got eyes for him."

"Oh Father! If this sort of thing keeps happening, he may never leave here at all!"

"Anyway. The Jäger training the tasty young men is called Ostwald, used to be Gustav Klemm's lieutenant way back when. Mind your step around him, he's sharp. There's also a few people from the Eagle's Nest. Two or three black miners who were enforcers back in Sudan. Nasty bastards. Strange, but there's only one or two of them here at any one time. If you can find out where they go, I'd be much obliged. Sabine won't tell me."

"Terribly unhelpful of her. She's teaching the young girls. I think she fancies one of them as her new plaything. That girl is not old enough for that, Brenda."

"Girls here grow up quick." Brenda sneered. "Regardless, I'd say they have to be a hundred before hooking up with her. But what can you do?"

"I have a point three-three-eight answer to that."

"You got my blessing. But Captain says no. He's not just about killing Slate. He wants to turn this place into a paradise."

"I know. It'll be a long time before he does that. This place reeks of death."

"You know, it ain't so bad. Been in much worse places. People here are nice. They just got a bunch of stupid notions in their heads."

I only nodded and said nothing. Brenda got up.

"Got to go. Sabine will come and look for me if I stay away too long. I'll say I was peeping at the boys in the bath."

I put my hand on Brenda's shoulder. "If any of them get too forward with you, give me the sign and I'll see that they trouble you no more."

Brenda snorted with laughter. "And if they don't get forward enough?"

"That's your own problem. Be safe."

Brenda stuck up her thumb and disappeared into the night. I stalked back to my sniper's nest. I found it as I left it. I sat down in a corner pistol in hand, pulled the blanket over me, and dozed.

 

---

 
A soft noise woke me up in the small hours of the morning. I looked up and saw the slender form of Fatin walking past, quiet like a breath of wind.

"Hey."

Fatin gave me a big smile, sat down next to me. She handed me a bag of fresh provisions. Some fruits and berries, fried yam, a bottle of water, and strips of dried tapir meat. There must not be a single tapir left in the area by now. It's only their own fault for being delicious.

"How are you doing?" said Fatin.

"I am warm, dry, well fed, and I have interesting things down below to look at. You?"

Fatin moved closer to me, leaned against my shoulder. "I am good. I do not like the cave we are in. In my tribe, we do not make our beds on hard rocks. There is nothing soft to lie down on." I could feel her laugh more than hear it. "Except Carl."

"Thank you for telling me that. I'm not sure I needed to know that about my brother."

"If you don't know, you need to find your own man."

"I'll give it my full attention once we get back to England."

"Why wait? There are lots of nice men here. Catch one and keep him here. It will stop you from being bored."

"A good idea, but everyone in the city would hear us. That would be bad."

"You will never have babies if you keep talking like that."

I pulled the note from my pocket and gave it to Fatin. "From Father. It shows what he has been doing."

Fatin peered at the note. I lit my red lantern so she could read. She had learnt her letters while we were refurbishing Lady I at Ipswich, and had learnt fast. She spoke English with an implacable accent, but with Carl she spoke the language of the Ajuru, to maintain in her mind the place she came from. In most of the company we found ourselves in, hers was the only dark face. Until the people of the world mingled, it was her lot to always stand out in any crowd. She would always be a curiosity. I had been in places where mine was the only pale face, but those places had never been home to me. Fatin's home now was with Carl and her son Raage... and with us.

"He is afraid," said Fatin.

"He's in a scary situation."

"Not for himself. For you, and Carl, and Brenda... and me. His words are for you, for when he is not here anymore. He thinks he will die here."

"Not while I have anything to say about it."

I patted my rifle next to me. It was my third rifle. The first had been a leftover Garand M1 without even a scope, that I had carried through West Africa. The second had been my beloved Mauser SR220 'Fräulein' which I modified to suit me. It had been taken away from me when Slate's henchmen captured me. This rifle was my third, and it was an entirely different beast. It made no attempt to be beautiful. Every single part to the smallest screw was the optimum for precision, for killing. The first time I had fired it, it had sent shivers down my back. My Mauser had its little quirks that I had got used to. This Accuracy International rifle made no compromises, erased all my excuses. If I missed, it would be because of my lack of willpower, not because of my tool. I watched as Fatin put Father's note in her pocket, picked up the empty provisions bag.

"I don't think I am the right sort of woman for babies."

Fatin put her hand on my shoulder, bent over me, placed a single kiss on the top of my head. She gave me a smile, and disappeared into the gloom.

 

---

 
Sleeping while trying not to be found is never the best. I'd made strong tea on a tiny petroleum burner, with no milk. I'd had some fruit and oat cakes for breakfast, and once again I was at my post, watching over the goings-on below. The farmers went out into the fields, the Jäger trained, the girls went to class, market stalls sold food, Slate blathered on in Latin at people who didn't understand a word of it, and wouldn't like it if they did. I could by now recognise the most capable fighters on sight and I'd named them Tom, Dick, and Harry. Tom had a dedicated admirer in one of the girls, who I'd named Daisy. She would come to the arena after class, and cheer him on. Dick and Harry were vying for the attentions of the lovely Helen, who was not ready to make any concessions to either of them. Personally, I thought the little minx knew exactly what she was doing and was cruelly playing one against the other. These are the women who give the good girls a bad name.

Father and Brenda came out, with Brenda carefully carrying two big earthenware urns. Father had a piece of glassware, a glass tube shaped like the letter U. They set their things down on one side of the square and Brenda put a ten-yard circle of rocks round the contraption. Several of the townsfolk walked up to see what was going on, but Brenda held out her hands and pointed at the circle. Stay out. Father made some preparations with what looked like pieces of string or wires running from the urns to the glass piece. Brenda walked to the well, pulled up a bucket of water. At Father's sign, she filled up the U-shaped vase and closed it with tight fitting lids. They retreated to the edge of the circle. Father pulled out his pipe and lit it, as he carefully observed the apparatus. He smoked four pipes one after the other, then walked up to the Apparatus. He opened the top of the glass pipe, held his pipe up to it at arm's length. At exactly the same moment, all the villagers jumped back at a noise that I couldn't hear at the distance. He lit a splinter of wood with a match, blew it out, then opened up the other side of the vase and held the glowing splinter inside. It immediately lit up with a bright flame. Father blew it out again, bowed to his audience. Really Father. Magic tricks? I would have to ask Brenda what my Captain and Father was playing at.

 
A few hours later, Sabine's class went out and most of the girls ran out to watch the boys at play. The lads put on a brave display until Heinz Ostwald called quits and the boys scattered, some with a girl, some not. To the victors go the spoils. Maybe half an hour later, the farmers returned, hungry from a long day at work. Even from my hiding place, I could pick up cooking smells. I rummaged through my bag and found some strips of dried meat and some flat bread. With a few cups of rain water, a feast fit for a king.

About an hour later, there was movement down below as several of the men came out, strapping leather protective gear to their arms and legs. One of them was carrying a ball. They divided up into teams and started to bounce the ball back and forth between them. I had read about this. The game was called Ullamaliztli, and it was the Aztec equivalent of a friendly five-a-side. You weren't allowed to touch the ball with your hands or feet, so players used their thighs, knees, elbows and hips. I now recognised the stone hoops on either side of the playing field for what they were. Whoever managed to knock the ball through one of these hoops, would score an instant win for his team. On more serious occasions, either the winning or the losing team would be sacrificed to Huitzilopochtli. Which one, the historians were never clear on. Tonight's game did not look much more likely to end in blood than a round of footie back in Windsor Gardens.

People came out to watch, including Brenda and Father. There were cups of drink, people sitting about chatting, cheers. Through my scope, I could recognise Dick and Harry on the opposing teams. Helen was sitting near the middle of the field with her back to the game, talking to Tom and Daisy. Now and then, when the cheers grew louder, she allowed herself a little casual glance over her shoulder to see which of her suitors would emerge victorious. Dick's team skilfully placed the ball in a place where there were least of the opposing team, and the ball rolled off side. One point for them. The game continued, and I marvelled at the reckless abandon of the men throwing themselves butt-first to the ground to hit the ball with their hips. One of Harry's teammates caught the ball, bounced it up, and Harry caught it on his knee and hurled the ball at the hoop in the wall. He almost got it, but the ball bounced off the edge. Almost doesn't cut it, and the game continued.

 
So engrossed was I in the game that I didn't hear the noise behind me until the last moment. Soft footsteps, and... singing? The door opened, I leapt off the table and landed on the floor, pulling out my pistol and aiming in one motion. I stopped.

In the doorway stood a young woman, looking at me with large dark eyes, still as a rabbit caught in a poacher's light. I put my pistol behind my back, stood up. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. I holstered my pistol, stepped round the table in front of her. We stood like that for a few moments. For want of anything better to do, I gave her a smile. She smiled back nervously, took a quick breath.

"Niltze," she said. She looked at my face, my hands. "Um. Bonjour? Ah non. Bonsoir?"

I laughed, and the tension flowed away. "Bonsoir Mademoiselle," I said. "Comment ca va?"

"Ca va bien, merci, et vous?"

Never let it be said that you don't learn any useful phrases in French class. One day you may well wish to know where your aunt's quill is, and this young woman and I had just recited perfectly one of our first lessons.

"Qui êtes vous?"

Ah. Introductions. I could hardly tell her that I was the daughter of the Alchemist, here to kill anyone who looked like they were about to hurt my father.

"I am only a guard," I said. With a little dramatic flair, I added: "Je suis l'oeil du Magistre."

"The eye of the Magister, yes, but..." She pointed at herself. "My name is Chipahua. What is your name?"

I knew I was going to regret telling her, but I could hardly avoid it without making her suspicious.

"Alexandra," I said.

"Alexandre?" She gave me a strange look. "Like the king? You are not a king!"

"No no. Alexandra." I smiled. "My father wanted another son."

"Who is your father?"

Oh bother. I walked right into that. "He lives far away, in between the clouds."

"Oh." Chipahua looked at her feet. "Je m'excuse."

"It's good."

Chipahua walked round the room, looking out of the window, at my things.

She pointed at my rifle. "What is that?"

"That's so I can see you better," I said.

She frowned. "How?"

I picked up my rifle, checked twice that the safety was on, pointed.

"Look through this."

"Whoa!" Chipahua laughed. "I can see the people playing! I can see Yaretzi! She is talking to Ixtli, but I can't hear her."

Chipahua raised her hand to wave, but I grabbed her wrist.

"No. I must not be seen. Nobody must know that I am here. You must not know that I am here, but it was my fault that you found me so I will not hold that against you. But you must never tell anyone you saw me. If you ever do, bad things will happen. To you and to me. Please promise me."

"I promise." She hopped onto the table, legs dangling. "I won't tell anyone."

I smiled at her, changed the subject. "You speak French very well."

"Mistress Sabine teaches us, so that we can properly listen to the Magister one day." Chipahua rolled her eyes. "She is so wonderful, so beautiful, so wise. Yaretzi wants to be with her all the time."

Ah. Sabine's new project was called Yaretzi. It seems that even evil teachers get students' crushes. Back in Ipswich, one of my Rifle Club girls had confessed having certain feelings towards me. The difference was that even if I were inclined towards other women, which I am not, I would rather shoot myself than take advantage of Carrie, while Sabine almost couldn't wait to have her way with Yaretzi. I wanted so much to warn her, tell her that Sabine was too dangerous, too evil. But I could not see a way to do that. These girls only knew her as their exotic, beautiful, charming, French teacher. They trusted her, and I was a complete stranger.

I swallowed, looked at Chipahua. Her tanned face, long shining black hair, dark eyes. Her short sleeved plain white linen dress decorated with floral images along the collar and hem. Wooden sandals on her feet. She looked lovely, wholesome, innocent, happy.

She was in mortal danger. Not only from Sabine, but also from me. I could not allow her to talk. I was playing for infinite stakes, and I could not lose. I should kill her. Quickly, quietly. Make it look like an accident. A poor adventurous girl taking one fatal misstep on her expeditions. Only then would my secret be safe.

That is what I should do. Now.

If I did, hell would not be punishment enough for me.

Chipahua jumped off the table. "I need to go now. Enchantée de faire votre connaissance."

"Wait!" I put my hand on her arm. "Please. Don't tell anyone about me, for the sake of the Magister, for my sake, but mostly for your own."

Chipahua gave me a bright smile. "Bien sûr! Au revoir!"

She waved, and walked out of the door. I watched her walk down the corridor. I could still put a bullet in her head. No. I could no more put a bullet in her head than I could put one in little Raage's head.

"Bugger," I said.

 

---

 
That night, Brenda came to visit me. She looked round my little home away from home, and gave it her stamp of approval. Well hidden, no chance of sunlight reflecting off my scopes, a good field of fire. I hadn't felt this good about myself since my granny complimented me on my egg-sucking skills. I confessed my sins.

"I made a new friend today. I got spotted."

"Ah crap," said Brenda. "Who?"

"One of Sabine's pupils. Her name is Chipahua. Lovely girl."

"Should have killed her." Brenda knows how to put her finger on the sore spot.

"Yes."

"But you didn't."

"No."

"Good."

"I couldn't," I said. "She's a non-combatant."

"Yeah."

We sat in silence for a few moments. I looked at Brenda.

"Would you have?"

"In the Corps, no way. We'd tie her up so she'd get loose in a few minutes and scoot. We don't stick around anywhere anyway. In the Jäger, she'd be dead before she knew it. Unless..." She fell silent.

"Hm?"

"Nothing."

There was another pause.

"This makes our lives a little more dangerous," I said. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah. We'll take it. Are you going to relocate?"

I shook my head. "If she came back and didn't find me, she'd look for me. She might even ask Slate himself about me. Or Sabine."

"I'll go tell the captain."

 
The next morning, I heard the noise of wooden sandals on the stone floor. This time, I did have the time to hide before the door opened. Yes, I did close that door after the horse had bolted, thank you for asking. Chipahua came in, looked round, called my name. I sighed, got to my feet.

"Niltze, Alexandra" said Chipahua, stressing the final A as I had.

"Hello Chipahua," I said. "Why are you here? You shouldn't have come you know. What if you are seen?"

She shrugged. "I always go for walks around the City. If I'd stop, people would ask me why." She held up a package wrapped in leaves. "I have something for you."

The package was soft and warm to the touch, and the smell made my mouth water.

"I do have my own food, you know?"

Chipahua raised her eyebrows. "Really? Show me."

I took a few strips of delicious dried tapir from my pack and gave one to Chipahua. She took a bite.

"This is food? Do all pale faced people eat this?"

"They do when they are trying to stay hidden." I looked into Chipahua's eyes. "Thank you for the food, but please don't risk bringing me more. It's too dangerous."

"Why? The Magister is not in any danger, is he?"

"The Magister is always in danger, from terrible foes. He does not wish the People to be frightened. That is why I am here, hidden, to guard against the enemy."

"But what can you do? You are alone, and a woman."

"I can watch, and see, and when the enemy arrives, I can raise the alarm. I have tools that let me do that. Then the Magister Himself can move against the enemy."

Chipahua looked at me with wide open eyes. "They say the Magister's words fly even to the Sun itself. Is it like that?"

"A little." I smiled. "I can send messages only about a mile away. But only if I see the enemy before the enemy sees me. That is why it is so important that nobody knows I am here."

"I will be very careful that nobody sees me." She hopped off the table and made for the door.

"Hey," I said. She turned round and I held up the package. "Thank you for the food."

Chipahua grinned, waved, and she was gone.

I sat on the table, my spotting scope in one hand, and Chipahua's tlaxkalli in the other. It had beans in, tomatoes, lots of chillies and a lot of salt. It was the best I'd ever tasted. Not murdering Chipahua had already paid off.

 
Below me in the distance, the City of Anctapolepl awoke to another day.

Philip Tennant: Minds and hearts

Lighter than air - A priest named Ichtacka - The Ark of the Covenant - A use for a lot of hydrogen

 

BATS IN THE BELL TOWER Rina Prescott reporting

 

The keen-eyed among you will have noticed that something strange has happened to our beloved Bell Tower. At the very top, it has sprouted some strange devices. Metal rods sticking out North, South, East, and West. After an investigation, we can now report that these things were bolted on by the students of Professor Clifford Parker of Electric Studies. Upon further questioning, Professor Parker admitted that these were used to sense "Vibrations in the luminiferous æther, invisible to the eye, of Unknown Origin." Professor Parker's students, known only as "The Sparks," have installed a large amount of magical equipment in the Tower, by permission of Archchancellor Munroe. In the opinion of this reporter, kind readers, this is skirting dangerously close to the kind of occult studies that have up to now been denied access to our University. What next? Necromancy? Spirit sensing? Seances? Algernon University has a reputation to protect. Is this the direction to take? More on this story as it develops.

 

---

 
The Lost Kingdom of Anctapolepl named me their Alchemist. I have no better claim to that title than any school boy. My fame as a bringer of explosions came from knowing that gunpowder is made of sulphur, salt petre, and a dash of charcoal. I spent most of my days in the City trying to work out the correct mixture for the biggest boom. That, and forging metal weapons where the standard was wood with pieces of obsidian. I have to say that King Ilhicamina's axe at least looked the part. Whether it would have shattered upon the very first enemy, we will never know.

But be that as it may, the Magister had given me a Task. I was to create large amounts of the most flammable gas in existence. Hydrogen. The astronomers tell us that hydrogen is the most abundant element in the Universe, which is heartening, but most hydrogen is tied up as an ingredient in such things as coal, water, wine, fat, and human beings. Separating hydrogen from such materials is not easy. Still, there are ways.

The cheapest process is powered, as all things are, by steam. Steam is passed at a temperature of around eight hundred to a thousand degrees on the Celsius scale through natural gas at high pressure, and being the lightest of the resulting gases, hydrogen will float to the top to be collected. What makes the process cheap is that we produce gigantic amounts of hydrogen in plants the size of a cathedral. Even if my Aztec friends could have built the apparatus for me, a small installation would be a waste.

There is another process, and it uses plain simple water, which comes falling from the sky every evening. Water, so the Alchemists say, is burnt hydrogen. All we have to do is reverse the process of burning and we end up with air and hydrogen. We do this by passing an electric current through the water. The process is known as electrolysis, after the Ancient Greek words for amber and dissolution, and it can be done on smaller scales.

I conducted my first experiment in the open air. Magister Slate provided me with two electric batteries after the design of Gaston Planté, the artisans made me a bent glass tube, and together, Brenda and I set up the experiment. It took about an hour for enough of the gases to form, under the interested eyes of the People of Anctapolepl. I couldn't resist lighting the hydrogen gas on fire, causing a high-pitched whistle of an explosion. The air that is created as a side effect is a purified air, oxygen. Anything that will burn in air will burn more fiercely in an oxygen-rich environment. I lit a splinter of wood, blew it out, and watched the red glowing ember spring back into flame when I dipped it into the oxygen. Nobody has ever seen the complex reactions that make our world what it is. Forever hidden from our eyes are the mechanics of existence itself. All we can see are the shadows of what is happening. The shadows are comforting.

 
As Brenda and I were disassembling our experiment, Ichtacka the High Priest came walking up to us. He was an old man, maybe in his sixties or seventies, with long thin white hair. He was wearing a simple purple tunic, without the feathered headdress of his office. I bowed my head.

"How does your magic go, Alchemist Philip Tennant?"

"As expected, Quetzalcoatl Totec Tlamacazqui Ichtacka," I said, using his full official title. "That which my studies have suggested would happen, has happened. The Magister will be pleased. I certainly am."

Ichtacka knelt by my piece of glassware, looked at it intently. "You have turned water to flame. How can this be?"

"Through the power of electricity." I briefly touched the electric wires together, making sparks.

"The power of the Sun itself! And a man can simply hold it in his hands! The Gods have never revealed such things to me." He looked at me. "Is this revelation a gift from the Lady Itzel?"

I had not seen Lady Itzel ever since the effects of the ergot fungus had been flushed out of my body. I missed her, and the brief glimpse she had given me of my dear late wife Iris.

"Ahmotsin, Tlamacazqui. This is a gift from the World itself." I pointed. "These urns contain the power of electricity. They were invented by a man named Alessandro Volta. These are a refinement of his invention."

"Then how did the Igleses come by these secrets?"

"Maybe by accident. Perhaps someone dropped the wires in water, watched the bubbles appear, and would not rest until he knew what was happening. We thirst for knowledge about all things. Including what water is made of."

Ichtacka dipped his fingers in the water, looked at them, tasted. "This is just water. It is not made of anything, things like octli, xocolatl, soup, are made of it. It is gifted to us by the Gods as a reward for our devotion. It cleanses our bodies. It slakes our thirst. It makes the crops grow." He wiped his fingers on his tunic and looked at me. "And yet, you have separated it into that which burns, and that which makes things burn. We put water on fire to put it out! How can water burn?"

"It cannot, Tlamacazqui, because water is already burnt. We cannot stoke our tenamaztli with ashes."

Ichtacka gave me a long look. A little smile flitted over his wrinkled face. "You must come to my house. We will have a few cups of xocolatl together, and you can show me how you turn it back into cocoa beans, chillies, herbs and water."

I bowed my head. "What if I cannot? The true xocolatl is a mystery known only to the Gods."

He laughed. "Then we must turn it back into water in the usual way."

 
I ordered Brenda to carry our instruments back to our home, and she threw me a salute with a hearty 'Aye-aye Captain.' Good. Discipline must be maintained at all times. I followed Ichtacka to his chambers. A friendly lady named Tonalnan came by to see if the old priest needed anything, and he asked her for a jug of hot chocolate. She came back carrying a large jug and cups, which Ichtacka accepted with a polite tlasohkamati. He gave the xocolatl an extra stir, poured us both a cup. I blew on the cup, tasted, and the heat of the water, and also of the chillies, the bitterness of the cocoa beans, instantly brought back the memories of Itzel.

Itzel was a priestess here when I clumsily fell into the city and broke my leg beyond repair. The name is Mayan, not Aztec, and refers to a goddess of healing, whom the Aztec name Toci Yoalticitl. Itzel had nursed me back to health after my accident, taught me to walk again using a crutch. She was the most remarkable woman I had ever met, being able to memorise people's words, perfectly. In our country, this would have made her a priceless gem in the scientific community. Here in this city, she could carry everybody's questions up to the god Huitzilopochtli. A feat every bit as important, but where in our world, she would have lived, here, to fulfil her destiny, she had to die. I had seen her after that, but only in fevered dreams when Sabine Moreau poisoned my xocolatl spices with ergot fungus.

 
Ichtacka sat back in his chair, put down his cup, looked at me with kind but keen eyes.

"Alchemist, why are you here?"

I held my warm cup between my hands, vapour carrying the spices up to me. "I was travelling in my dirigible. Something went wrong and we fell to the ground. Brenda helped me to walk here."

"The Magister arrived here by the same way." Ichtacka pointed his hand at the ceiling. "He lowered himself through the Heavenly Portal, and spoke to us in foreign tongues. My fellow high priest spoke against him, and told him to be off, and he was struck by fire and died. With his hands, The Magister caused the Lightning to appear. He then took the Holy Temple as his home, and slept there, and was not consumed. Thus we knew that he was sent by the Gods." Ichtacka closed his eyes a moment. "At least, most of us know this."

"There are those who doubt?"

Ichtacka gave me a piercing look. "The People may be forgiven for thinking that this city, this Kingdom, is the whole of the world. They have never set foot outside the walls, or beyond the corn fields, or the hunting grounds. Yet we know that the world is large beyond imagining. There are places that you could not walk to in a lifetime. Places that only dirigiable can fly to." He used the French word, there being no Nahuatl word for airship. "And in all that vastness, all the places you could fly to..." he pointed at the floor. "You come here. The one place that you hate more than any other place in the world. This is no throw of the patolli, Alchemist. You are here because you want to be here. That is clear to me. What is not clear to me is why."

I raised my cup. "This is the only place where the real xocolatl can be found."

Ichtacka chuckled. "Apart from that, Alchemist, there are only two things here that you could be interested in. Us, or the Magister. Which one draws you here?"

I thought a moment, took a sip of my hot chocolate.

"I did not leave here. I escaped. My friends took me on their journey to their own fates, and left me with people who kept me from dying, and sent me back home. I bought my dirigible, intending to serve the cause of Knowledge, but then Itzel appeared to me in a dream. She told me that my work here was not yet done. That I had seen destruction, but not the rebuilding. And that is the first reason I am here."

Ichtacka's cup was empty, and he refilled it from the jug. "Does the Lady Itzel truly speak to you, Alchemist?"

I told him the truth. I could have spun him a tale of how Itzel spoke to me from the Afterlife. How her words had proven my faith to King Ilhicamina. How she had whispered secrets in my ear. But I had decided before I came here that I would speak only the truth to these people. Not because I am a particularly virtuous man, but because I wanted to set them free of lies, free to choose their own destiny. Let the lies come from Magister Slate, and from him alone.

"In the beginning," I said, "I did not believe so. I thought that she had simply perished, and that I never would see or hear her again. I returned to my home in England, and Anctapolepl seemed almost like a dream to me."

"A bad dream," said Ichtacka.

I nodded. "For a while I travelled the skies with my children. My son Carl. My daughter Alexandra. My son's wife Fatin. Their child Raage. My..." I thought a moment, but couldn't decide what to call her. "Brenda."

"Your faithful servant," said Ichtacka, with a little laugh in his voice.

"She will obey my every command, as long as I do not ask her to do things she doesn't want to do."

Ichtacka refilled my cup. "What happened on your travels?"

"My enemy crept on board, and poisoned me, so that I saw things that were not there. Lady Itzel. My late wife Iris. Or maybe, the poison opened up my mind to see things that are hidden, and Itzel was really there. Itzel told me things that I could not have known." I looked up at Ichtacka. "Or maybe I could have known them, and I only wanted Itzel to be alive again."

Ichtacka smiled at me. "Young priests pray expecting to be answered by the God as if they were to ask you or me. They are disappointed. Then they learn simply to listen, and they hear many things. They will believe that everything that comes into their hearts is the unsullied word of the Gods. Then they are disappointed again when some of these notions are dung. Old priests..." He looked into his cup, swirled the dark liquid round, drank it. "We expect to be deceived. We learn to measure the thoughts that come floating to us from the Sun against what turned out to be true. So we can tell the images of the Gods from our own troubled thoughts and desires."

"I still cannot tell."

Ichtacka held up the jug, asking if I wanted more xocolatl. I politely waved my hand, and he emptied the jug into his own cup.

"Then you must wait and see." He sat back in his chair. "I will not ask you, Alchemist, for you would be forced either to say too much, or to lie. But I think I know who your enemies are, and what the second reason is why you are here."

We looked into each other's eyes for a moment.

"Thank you, Tlamacazqui."

 

---

 
The door opened, and Miss Sabine Moreau came walking in without as much as a knock. She turned to me.

"You are wanted in the Temple. Follow me."

I got up, turned to Ichtacka. "I have been summoned, Sir. And so I must go. Thank you for the chocolate, it brought back many memories."

"If you must, you must," said Ichtacka.

I followed Miss Moreau out of the door. I had to step up to keep up with her. She looked at me over her shoulder.

"What were you two talking about?"

I have her a little smile. "Old memories. It is nice to speak Nahuatl again. It is a beautiful language."

"You are getting intimate with the old goat." Her dark eyes shone at me with a sadistic gleam. "If you get too friendly with the Magister's subjects, my orders are to kill you."

I sighed. "I had every chance to drop you into the Mediterranean Sea."

"But you didn't, et nous voici."

We hadn't taken two steps out of the doors and into the main square when Brenda joined us. She took up position next to me without a word, gave Sabine a carefully neutral look. We climbed the stairs leading up to the temple. There was blood on these stairs, that of countless sacrifices, including that of my beloved Itzel, and also my own. Again, I saw the frightening face of my assistant Yaotl, kicking, dragging, beating me up these stairs. Before I could stumble, there was a hand on my elbow, and Brenda looked up at me, her face earnest, not lifting me up, but simply reminding me that she was there. I gave her a tiny nod in thanks, and continued up.

 
We reached the top of the stairs. Sweat streamed down my face and I wiped it with a handkerchief. I turned round, looked down on the square, with its people going about their business, the damage I caused to the King's quarters still clearly to be seen.

"Allez," said Sabine, and we entered the Temple proper.

There had been a change. Yesterday, the main chamber had been empty. Now, there was one of the Magister's Hermes devices quietly blinking its lights to itself. A row of electrical batteries after the fashion of George Planté stood along the wall. In the middle of the room stood a large high-backed wooden chair, almost a throne. Electrical wires ran from the batteries to copper globes on the arm rest where someone seated in the chair could easily put his hands on them. It looked like someone had taken an old church, and turned it into a factory.

"What is this?"

At that moment, Slate came walking out of a back room. He gave me a polite nod. "Ah. Alchemist Tennant. My compliments to your tailor, the robes suit you very well."

I pointed at the chair. "What is this, Slate?"

"Do you like it?" He stroked the smooth wood. "It is a new apparatus for communicating with the Divine. Did you know that the Ark of the Covenant operated in much the same manner? A primitive lead acid battery connected to the statues on the top." He ran a finger over the copper globes. "A little unexpected... experience to bring one closer to the World Beyond. I understand that the local priesthood like a measure of pain in their devotions. This should suit them perfectly."

I said nothing, but the expression on my face presumably told him exactly what I thought on the matter.

"Oh come now, Captain." His dark eyes glinted at me. "Don't dismiss it until you have tried it. Would you like to? Please sit down. I insist!"

Brenda took a step forward. "Why don't you demonstrate it yourself, Slate? That way we all know it ain't gonna kill anyone and I won't have to break your neck."

"Oh Miss Lee." Slate's voice sounded sad and disappointed as he stepped forward and sat down on the Throne. "You should divorce yourself from the notion that violence is the answer to any problem. It is such a disturbance to the..." He gave Brenda a dark look. "Peace and tranquillity of this sacred place. Sabine? If you please?"

Slate put his gloved hands on the copper orbs, and Sabine pushed a lever. At the same moment, there was a crackling noise above his head, and small streaks of lightening travelled up the V-shaped ornaments at the top of the Throne. Slate closed his eyes. There were the slightest tremors in his arms. He bared his teeth and spat out words in a language I had never heard before in my life. Sabine pulled the lever the other way, and at once the lights and noise disappeared. Slate turned his dark gaze to me.

"You have not been entirely frank with me, Alchemist."

"Naturally not. But allow me to be frank now." I waved my hand round the room. "Both from the convictions of the Aztec, and from my own, this is an abomination."

"It is the way of the New World, Alchemist. Banish the old superstitions, banish the strangle-hold of things unseen, unheard, immeasurable and non-existent! Let reason and rationality rule the Earth."

"And naturally, you alone are the perfect champion of rationality and Truth. The natural choice for the new world leader."

He laughed, spread out his arms, making his long sleeves fly out like dark wings. "If you find anyone better, Captain Philip Tennant, I beg you to tell me, and I will gladly pass the mantle to him."

"Was there a reason for forcing an old invalid to climb a hundred steps up here, Slate? Or is this merely for your entertainment?"

"That would be a needless act of cruelty, and I abhor those. I have called you here to instruct you in your next task. I have heard that you have produced a few cups full of hydrogen. That is a proof that the concept works, but we need more. Much more. We will need a hundred tonnes of hydrogen gas, Alchemist. Enough to lift a small airship off the ground."

"Do you have an airship, Slate?"

He looked into my eye. Had I had two, I would certainly have betrayed myself, but as it was, I gave away nothing.

"One may well turn up before long, Captain. Whatever you need, ask me, and I will provide it. You know where to find me. That is all. You may go."

 

---

 
We stepped outside, where the rains were just about to start. At the top of the stairs, I felt a hard push between my shoulder blades, and I would have tumbled down the stairs if Brenda had not caught me. I looked round into the shining eyes of Sabine Moreau.

"The Magister disapproves of unnecessary cruelty, Alchemist. But I enjoy cruelty. So for me, all cruelty is necessary."

Brenda turned round, took a step forward. "If you ever try anything like that again, you little bitch, I'll..."

I put my hand on Brenda's shoulder. "Thank you for that valuable insight, Miss Moreau. Now if you don't mind, the Magister has given me a task, and I must see to it."

Miss Moreau bent over to me, teeth bared in a hideous smile. "I can't wait for you to outlive your usefulness."

I put my hand on Brenda's arm, and she let go of the hilt of her kukri. We turned round, and walked down the long stairs. Brenda stared ahead of her, lips tight.

"I'm gonna hurt her."

I put my arm round her shoulders. "Weren't you here to ensure my motives remained pure?"

She gave a short bark of a laugh. "How about this? I let you enslave maybe two or three of the civvies, and I get to cut off two of her fingers. Deal?"

"Oh I'll want at least a dozen thralls for that." I squeezed her shoulder. "And unlimited maniacal laughter."

"Done."

 
We had dinner in our own chambers that evening, brought to us by the same charming young girl who had served us before. Her name was Chipahua, and she put down our bowls and plates with a happy bon appetit. The food was entirely vegetable, hellishly spicy, and delicious. Brenda went out to find Alexandra, and I sat up for a while, cup of xocolatl in hand. Why was I here?

Sleep overtook me. I hobbled to my bed, took off my leg. At the precise moment between waking and sleeping, there was a soft touch on my shoulder. I looked round and sitting next to me was Itzel, as beautiful as ever she had been.

"'t Was brillig, and the slithy toves, did gyre and gimble in the wabe," she said. "You never told me what a tove is, Philip."

"Something given to much gyring and gimbling, obviously." I thought of touching her, but changed my mind. "It's good to see you."

"It is good to be back here, both for you and for me." She touched the covers. Did she pull them over my shoulder, or did I do that myself? I couldn't tell. "You have a long hard journey ahead, Philip Tennant. Now sleep, and I will watch over you."

I wanted to touch her hand, but I knew that would have broken the spell.

"Thank you Itzel," I said, and fell asleep.

Fatin Tennant: Home in the Shadows

Home is people - Beauty and death - My sister who watches - The bones of the other airship - New old friends - Through the night into the light - Scavenging an airship - Friends that were - It is not a home until you have guests

 

CHURCHES AND CULTS By Linda Davenport

 

What is the difference between a church and a cult? What is the difference between faith and superstition? What is the difference between magic and miracle? One circumvents natural law, but so does the other. One is done by the mere assertion of will over matter, but so is the other. One is impossible to understand to those not in the know, but so is the other. Where does the difference lie? One distinction is the source. Only miracles come from God. Is that the only distinction? Are magic spells simply miracles from an unauthorised source?

 
Are you going philosophical on us? -- RP

Been reading about comparative religion. Did you know that Jesus is mentioned in the Koran? -- LD

I'll ask the vicar if Mohammed is ever mentioned in the Bible. -- RP

Seems only fair. -- LD

 

---

 
I am Fatin Tennant. I was at the helm of Lady I when she was hurt by Boreas's teeth and fell to the top of a mountain. She was badly hurt and could not fly anymore. Her engines Itzel and Iris have been asleep for many months now, but I know that she is not asleep forever.

Boreas was her large friend. They sailed through the clouds together for many days. We do not know why Boreas fought us, but we had to fight back. Boreas burnt up in the sky and fell to the ground, with all the people who sailed in her. It is the second time I have seen an airship die. The first time, I cried. This time, I was too busy and too afraid to cry, and I only felt joy at being alive.

Sometimes, tribes in Africa go to war. The men use their hunting spears on other men. People die. An airship is large. When it dies, many people die at the same time. We are large inside an airship, and we must be careful like an elephant who pushes over trees just by walking into them.

 
We left our home at Windsor Gardens to hunt for Prometheus. Windsor Gardens is not the real name of the mountain. We call it that as a joke because that is where Philip, Iris, Alex, and Carl lived before they had Lady I. We are in the Amazon Rain Forest. The Amazon is a river as long as two White Niles. It is a beautiful forest with birds coloured in red and blue and yellow, and tapirs who walk on four legs with large bodies and drooping noses. They also taste delicious and we have dried their meat to take with us on our walk. The rains come down every day. They are warm and as heavy as the rains in Africa. There are roots, and berries, and bananas, and pineapples. The pineapples are the best, but there are large spiders who want to keep them all to themselves. Their hairs make your hands itch, so you flick them away with a knife. I also want to keep all the pineapples to myself, and I am not afraid of a hairy spider. I gave some to Raage and he ate until he was all happy and sticky.

 
When he still had both his legs, Philip walked here, to look for homes like the ones built in Africa. He thought people had crossed the ocean in boats like the River People. The people of Elder Ramaas are strong. They can row their River Crocodile to the moon if they want. They would have liked the Amazon, but the Ocean is long, and salty, and boring. Brenda, Carl, and Alex found the cave where Philip first entered the City. We are now walking to that cave. At the back of the cave, there is a tunnel into the City. It is long and dark, but we have torches. Its roof fell down long ago, but Carl, Brenda, and Alex have dug a way through. Alex will go and hide in the city with her rifle and shoot people who want to hurt Philip or Brenda. Carl and I will stay behind, and search all around the mountain for things that can help us, and gather food and drink for Alex.

We walked for two days, and then we came to Philip's cave. There is a pond inside with clear water, and there are statues made by the Aztec. Some of them are animals, some of them are people. They all have big teeth. Some of them have the skulls of people on their clothes.

There is a stone bed in the middle of the room, and a little crib on the side where Raage can sleep. Carl said he would not sleep there. I asked him why and he said because it is not a bed. It is a table, and it was used for bad things. I asked him what bad things, and he said nothing until I asked him again. He told me that people were killed on this table and Raage's crib was there to catch the blood.

The people who made this table are cannibals. Stupid people. Carl said that they built the entire city. So they are clever stupid people. We will not sleep on the table. It will give us bad dreams. Carl went out to find tree branches with leaves to sleep on. I am feeding Raage. He looks happy, because he does not know about the bad things that happened here. The statues are beautiful. People worked on them for a long time. They look like someone loved them. This table has pictures on it of animals and stars and flowers. And it has a groove for letting the blood run down into Raage's crib. This beautiful thing was made to kill people on. Beautiful and ugly at the same time. I don't understand these people.

 

---

 
Carl has brought leaves for our bed. He has made fire. I have made lunch of yuccas and dried tapir meat. You can only eat the pineapple after all the other things. I asked Carl why, and he said that eating dessert before you finish would make the Great Bull who carries the world shake his head and the whole world would go down in flames. That would be bad, so I had the yuccas and meat first. The world did not go down in flames so Carl could be right. I will try to eat the pineapple first tomorrow and then I will know.

I packed pieces of pineapple, biscuits, flat bread, tapir meat, and a bottle of water for Alex. I gave Raage to Carl and walked into the dark tunnel with the light at the end. I climbed out and walked to the room where Alex was. In Africa, I often went with the hunters. They want you to be quiet so the kudu don't hear you. I know how to walk quiet and hidden. Alex was glad to see me, and I used her scope to see the people below.

There were many people in the yard. Women working, making bread, making clothes, making pots. Nobody was killing anyone else, but maybe they only do that on special days. Maybe a full moon makes them stupid.

Alex opened her food and ate the pineapple first. I told her what Carl had said and she said her brother was an ass. She gave me a piece of pineapple and the world did not end.

I looked down and a group of men came out and practiced fighting with spears. I took the scope so I could see better. Alex said I was smiling. I said the men were nice. Alex said I already had a a man. I told her that it doesn't matter where you get hungry, as long as you eat at home. I like to hear Alex laugh. She should laugh more often. I took Alex' empty food bags and bottle and put it in my bag. I hugged Alex and said I had to get back to Carl. She asked me if I was hungry and I said yes.

 
I walked back to the cave. I saw one white man on the way. He was walking to the city, but I hid behind a rock and he did not see me. I went down into the tunnel and found Carl in the cave. He gave me tea, and I sat on his lap and said I was hungry. We kissed, and then Raage saw I was back and cried. I wanted to put Raage outside in the rain, but Carl said that would be cruel. So I picked him up, and gave him the breast, and sat on Carl's lap. He held us in his arms.

That was also good.

For now.

 

---

 
Carl packed food for a walk of two or three days. We wanted to walk around the city to find Boreas. We don't know why Boreas attacked us. Maybe we can find out when we go there.

We walked from dawn till the sun was high. I filled up my bags with berries and herbs. I have a blue bag for food I don't know yet, to try small bits and see if it is good or bad. We walked by a field of grain, green and not ready yet to cut down and eat. Men were working, digging little streams to give the grain water. I wanted to talk to them, but I remembered the table in the cave. We stayed away from them and they didn't see us. Carl had his rifle in his hands. He also remembered the table. I could see he was glad when he could put it on his back.

We walked until the rain came down, and put up a shelter and sat under it looking at the rain. We ate. I still had the pineapple last so I could keep the taste in my mouth as I walked. Raage liked the berries. He eats more food every day and needs the breast less. Soon he will only eat food, and nobody will want my breasts except Carl.

 
In the middle of an open space, we found Boreas. The trees were still burnt. It takes a long time for a forest to grow back the way it was after a fire. All the cloth had burnt away, and the metal was all bent and twisted. Carl and I became sad and quiet. He said that there but for the grace of God lie we. Sometimes, two people go into the forest and only one comes back. Nobody knows why one falls, drowns in the river, is taken by lions, or bitten by a snake, and not the other.

I looked round at all the broken parts of Boreas, and I saw two men looking like we were. We hid behind the trees and they did not see us. We watched them, and more came out, talking, pointing at all the things. I could not understand their words, but they sounded a little like home. They were darker than the men of the City, and their faces were like people I know. They walked around, looked at the pieces of Boreas. One of them found something lying on the floor, and they stood around it, and sang a sad song, for one who has died. I almost cried with them.

I told Carl that these were good people, and we should meet them. He asked if I would bet my life on it. I thought, and said yes. We stood up and he took my hand. His rifle was hanging loose, pointing down. I squeezed his hand and we walked out to the men. I greeted them, not in our own language but in the language we speak with the River People and other tribes. The men looked at us, and did not understand what I said. They held out their hands and spoke to me, but I did not know their words either. One of them pointed at Carl and smiled. He called him Le chasse-tête au peau de neige. This means the headhunter with skin like snow. They all stood round and laughed and touched Carl's shoulders.

 
Carl told me he knew them from the Eagle's Nest in Sudan. They were once a tribe of miners, four times as large as my Ajuru tribe. Slate's men took them from their camp. They killed all the women and children. Slate made them work for him, digging up stones from deep under the ground. The stones were bad and made the miners sick, but when they refused to work, Slate's men came and beat them. Their life in the Eagle's nest was a night without a day. Without hope.

Carl, Brenda, Wainwright, and Master Nazeem crept into the Nest and set them free. Master Nazeem is a witch doctor who travelled with us. He took them away from the night, and he and his friends cared for the miners. They took new names, because all that they were before was destroyed. They were named the Per Nocta Ad Lucem. Those are old words in an old language, and they mean Through the Night Towards The Light.

The elder of the Per Nocta was named Marcel. Carl said that when he crept into the Eagle's Nest, Marcel almost smashed his head in with a hammer, but when he learnt that Carl had taken the head of the bad woman who hurt Alex, he didn't. Carl asked Marcel if Master Nazeem was there, but he was away to the North. Carl asked how the Per Nocta came here, and Marcel said that they walked from the North. Carl asked Marcel how he found this place, but Marcel didn't say.

 
We walked round the broken parts of Boreas. Everything was black with soot, burnt, bent, or broken. Still some things were still whole. Carl found a large tank that could hold gas for an airship. He also found that one of the propellers wasn't bent too much and maybe he could hammer it into shape for Lady I.

We found more sad things. The bones of people, with all the flesh burnt off. Carl and the Per Nocta dug a grave and put all the bones in. We stood around the grave and sang a song for the dead. Carl said the Our Father prayer, and we left the bones in peace.

Carl does not pray often. He was looking at something in his hand. I asked him what it was, and he showed me. It was a silver chain with a locket hanging from it. It had melted, and the picture inside was burnt, but the name on it was still there. Carl said he knew that name. It was the woman of a man he knew. The people on board Boreas when they attacked us were Captain Gaskin and his crew! Why? Why did Captain Gaskin and Boreas attack us?

 
Carl asked Marcel if he wanted to know about a secret way into the City, and Marcel said Mais oui, which means yes. Some of the Per Nocta stayed with Boreas. Marcel and three other men came with us.

Carl was quiet all the way to the cave. I touched him, and he smiled at me, and then went back to being sad. We had found Boreas to find who had tried to kill us. We thought that bad men had stolen Boreas, but that was not true. Our friends had tried to shoot us down. People I had tea with. People who talked to me. Who had carried my bag for me on my way to Lady I.

Why?

 

---

 
We came back to our cave. There were four men with us. Marcel the elder went with Carl into the tunnel. There were three men left with me.

Guillaume is a hunter. He can run very fast, for very long, because his ancestors came from Kenya. He does not speak, though he understands when Carl speaks French to him. He went outside to find food for all of us.

Erik is one of the people who were in the same bad place as Alex. They beat him and broke his face to show his friends what they would do if the miners did not do what Slate said. I can't look at him. His face scares me because there is so much pain in it. I think of sharing that pain, and I know I never can, and I am afraid. But that is what Slate wants. That is why he does these things. So I look at him, and I smile.

Theodore is older than Marcel. He should be Elder, but he says that is too much work. He was an Elder in another tribe, and worrying about them is what made his hair turn white. Now, he makes the fire, and tells the younger people what to do when they don't know themselves.

The men made fire, built beds out of wood with sticks and rope, boiled water from the pond, made tea. I tried to help, but Theodore told me to sit down, hold Raage and don't drop him. Raage told him in Baby that I almost never drop him. He is a good boy.

Guillaume came back carrying a capybara. It has four legs, and fur, and a lot of meat. I got up to slaughter it, but Guillaume held up his hand and I sat back down. He cut up the capybara and put the meat on the fire. Capybaras smell good when you roast them. Sometimes it is nice to have a lot of men around. If it lasts too long, I will forget how to make food.

 
When all the work was done, and all the food was ready to eat, Carl and Marcel came back from the tunnel. We ate the meat and the roots and the vegetables, and the bananas and the fruit. I have missed meals like this.

 
I am now sitting in Carl's lap with my notebook, writing this. Raage is asleep on Carl's arm, and he is holding a candle for me so I can see to write. Now and then, I ask him about a word and he tells me how to write it.

I feel warm, and happy. I finish writing, and we go to sleep.

Alan Wadcroft: The march of Science

Report on Omar Khouri - A visit to Hephaestos' lair - Spare my poor old heart - Hunting without leaving one's chair - Maritime arts - Ever closer

 

STEAM AND STEEL Rina Prescott reporting

 

Our founder's grandson Andrew Parsons has only one apprentice, and I am proud to see one of our female students taking that place. Miss Carrie StJohn finds the subject challenging but rewarding. She describes Mr. Andrew Parsons, who holds no doctorates or other qualifications, as a patient and knowledgeable teacher. He prefers the practical to the theoretical, holding no lectures, but explaining complicated concepts as they emerge from the act of building. The Clarion can reveal that Mr. Parsons and Carrie are now installing an electric engine in the Tracked Vehicle Mark One, also known as 'The Beast of Algernon'. Hoping, no doubt, to disprove the notion that any engine propelled by unseen forces can ever outperform a proper steam turbine.

 
Shouldn't that be "No Engine" rather than "Any Engine?" -- LD

Stet. Mr. Parsons is obviously being told to do this, would he of all people get involved with woo-woo science? -- RP

I suppose not. -- LD

 

---

 
It is always a pleasure to have visitors in my chambers. Mind you, in some cases, the pleasure is throwing them out and getting on with my work, but that emphatically does not apply to Dr. Lutitia McGee of Mental Studies. Especially not since she was returning with a report on the enigmatic Mr. Omar Khouri. Since the sun was over the yard-arm, we skipped the tea and indulged in a small glass of port.

"I had a lovely evening, Alan. Omar is a perfect gentleman."

"I am glad to hear it," I said. "He may be about to throw us all to the wolves, but he knows how to do it with propriety."

Lutitia leaned back, shifted uncomfortably. "Alan, you should get better chairs than these. The Spanish Inquisition would be ashamed of them."

"I find it encourages people to get to the point."

She looked out of my window, dream-like. "He took me to this lovely little seafood restaurant on the docks. You know, for a Muslim, there really aren't a lot of options. None of our cows are slaughtered in the prescribed way, neither are sheep. Pork is, of course, out of the question. The only thing halal is fish. Poor Omar is lucky we are right on the seaside."

"Are potato chips halal?"

"Oh pish posh, Alan! This was a proper restaurant. I'll take you there sometime and you can judge for yourself." She put down her glass, leaned her head on her hands. "He knew exactly why we were there. But he said he had nothing to hide, and any question I had, he would answer. As propriety allows of course."

"Of course."

"I like him. He's as slippery as an eel, but he's a friendly eel. I'm sure he can convince you the sky is green if he wants to, but on this occasion... no."

"Can we trust him?"

Lutitia thought for a few moments, the evening's conversation rolling round in her head. "I asked him what the Secret Service wanted him to do, and he said 'Restore the peace between us and Khartoum.' And then he said, 'But I hope to do better than that for the sake of the Service, the Moghadam family, and...' And then he stopped."

"And," I said. "And who?"

"Well, you lot, obviously. But I got the impression that was not what he meant. He could simply have mentioned you. No secret there."

"So there's another party involved?"

"I think so, yes."

"And he let it slip."

Lutitia sat up, shook her head. "Omar is too smart to let things slip by accident. I think he was telling me that there was another party involved."

"And who might that party be?"

"I don't know. But now at least we have a question." She tapped her fingers on my desk a few times. "Does he know I realise that he gave me that question and it wasn't a slip-up?" She laughed. "God, I love dinners like that."

"Whose side is he on? Really?"

"I don't know." She looked into my eyes. "But I am almost certain he's not against us."

I nodded. "Thank you, Lutitia. It is good to have someone who can probe into people's minds like you can. I owe you a large favour."

"Well..." Lutitia leaned forward and breathed in, with intent. "There is another man's mind I would love to probe into... deeply."

"Oh Lutitia." I brushed back my hair with a hand. "I thought you would never ask. Tell me. Who might this man be?"

She smiled at me. "Andrew Parsons."

To deal with women is to deal with disappointment, and I bore my fate manfully. "Would you like me to introduce you?"

"I'd be ever so grateful," she said.

 

---

 
None cometh unto Andrew Parsons but through Miss Felicia Sunderland, but when we looked in her office, she was not there. We asked around, and were told she was in Mr. Parsons' workshop, supervising. We went there, and found Miss Felicia sitting in a chair, wearing large ear-muffs against the noise of Andrew peacefully hammering a glowing piece of metal into shape. She was reading today's Gazette. Shouting being completely useless in this lair of Hephaestos, I tapped the newspaper and waved at her. She looked up, disturbed, tapped her earmuffs and pointed at the wall where several more pairs were hanging on pegs. Hearing protection is mandatory. I waved in the direction of the door. She nodded, put down her newspaper and got up. We stepped into the antechamber, where we could talk.

"Professor Wadcroft," said Miss Felicia. "To what do I owe the honour?"

I introduced Lutitia. "She would like to talk to Andrew, if that's alright. She is interested in his... um... mental make-up."

Miss Felicia's eyes turned to Lutitia, and briefly I was reminded of Miss Tennant and her sniper rifle.

"Mental make-up, Dr. McGee?"

"He's a genius," said Lutitia. "And more than that, he is not a tinkerer, he does not try and try again. He succeeds first time. He is a creator. The world to him is a place of mathematical precision, and he knows all the rules that govern it. But you and I know that the world is not governed by numbers alone. That there are things that cannot be calculated. Uncertain things. And that frightens him, does it not?"

"Hmm." Miss Felicia gave the tiniest of nods. "Why don't you ask him yourself?" She pulled out a watch. "It's almost tea-time anyway. Time to get out of the noise."

"You're not normally here, are you?" I said. "What brings you here?"

"Chaperoning Miss StJohn. Can't leave a female student alone with Andrew." There was a bitter undertone in her voice. "You never know what might happen. He'd build her into one of his machines, and we'd never see her again!"

She put her earmuffs back on, gestured us to do likewise. She walked over to Andrew, reached up to touch his shoulder. Andrew's massive form turned round to her and she made a 'T' sign with her hands. Andrew nodded and put down his tools.

Miss Felicia picked up a hammer and walked over to the dark metal mass of the Beast of Algernon, a large steam-powered vehicle running on tracks rather than wheels. From our journey across Africa, it still had some of the bullet marks, though it never had any holes. Miss Felicia banged her hammer on the machine's hull. A few moments later, the top hatch opened and Miss Carrie StJohn looked out, wearing a woolly hat to keep her long hair from getting caught in machinery, a pair of earmuffs like we all had, and an oil-stained pair of white overalls. She lifted one of her earpieces.

"Yes?"

"Tea time," said Miss Felicia.

Carrie clambered out of the Beast and came down the ladder. Only now did she notice Lutitia and me.

"Oh. Hello." She gave a nervous little laugh. "Um..."

"How do you do, Miss StJohn," I said. "Work progressing as planned?"

"Oh yes. Yes." She pointed over her shoulder. "I'm taking out some of the steam pipes for the controls."

"Splendid! Dr. McGee is here to talk to Andrew, but we can do that over a cup of tea, can't we?"

"I'm parched," said Carrie.

 
In a steam-powered workshop like Andrew's there is never any shortage of boiling water, and we all sat down to tea and biscuits. Carrie pulled off her hat and shook out her long dark hair. Miss Felicia poured us all mugs of tea. Carrie passed round the milk and the biscuits. Looking into the shining metal of the teapot, she noticed a smear of oil on her cheek. She pulled out a handkerchief and polished it away.

"You missed a spot," said Lutitia, pointing.

"Thank you!" Carrie hurriedly wiped away the rest of the oil. "Gone now?"

"All gone." Lutitia turned to Andrew. "How are you doing, Mr. Parsons?"

"I am replacing the steam engines of the Tracked Vehicle Mark One with an electromagnetic turbine, after the design of Dr. André Dupont. I have scaled up the design to produce the required amount of torque. Miss Carrie is helping me with the modifications and I am showing her how to implement design changes."

"You always used to work alone, didn't you? Are you enjoying the company?"

"There are many procedures that are more efficiently executed with two people working on them."

"Another pair of hands, I understand. But it must be nice to have someone to talk to while you work?"

Andrew frowned, clearly not understanding.

"Does she listen well?" said Lutitia.

"Yes. She follows instructions with satisfactory accuracy."

"You only talk to her about work?"

Carrie laughed. "Well, Andrew is not one for talk about boyfriends." She shot me a quick look. "Not that I'd have one."

Lutitia looked at Carrie. "Do you enjoy working with Mr. Parsons?"

"It's amazing! I'm learning so much about metal work. Things I never thought you could even do with metal. Like oxy-acetylene welding. I can fit bits of metal together that will never come apart again. It's not just soldering, gluing metal together if you will. Two pieces of metal literally become one."

"Are you hoping to be as good as Mr. Parsons one day?"

"Oh no, I'll never be as good as he is. The other day he asked me to help him with the support struts for the new engine, me doing the left side, him doing the right, and I was right in there measuring up, but he wasn't. He just knew how long the struts had to be, and they fit perfectly. I'll never be able to do that."

"Really?" Lutitia turned to Andrew. "How do you do that?"

"I know the size of the electromagnetic turbine. I know how much the apparatus protrudes below the attachment points. I calculated the distance from the place where the struts are attached to the main structural support beams at a forty-five degree angle. From that, I could calculate the required length."

"You didn't measure it just to be sure?"

"No. I already had the required data."

"He knows it all out of his head!" Carrie wrapped a lock of her long dark hair round her finger and let it slip. I imagined there was a little more colour on her cheeks than usual. She must be very passionate about her chosen study subject.

Lutitia turned back to Andrew. "Does Miss Carrie always get her measurements right?"

"No," said Andrew. "Sometimes, she makes mistakes and we have to redo part of the procedure. That is because she is a student and has not yet learnt how to make the correct calculations."

"He's very patient," said Carrie. "Not like some other profs I could mention."

"Do you ever make mistakes, Andrew?"

"No."

"Not ever?"

Andrew frowned. "No."

"Sometimes..." Miss Felicia's eyes twinkled. "People need to be told information they already have."

"Don't you ever forget something?"

"No," said Andrew.

"It's true," said Carrie. "I asked him how many nuts and bolts I'd need for the fastenings of the engine console, and he said twenty-four. I'd counted only twenty but there's four inside the console as well. So I had to walk all the way back to the store." Carrie raised her leg a little and patted her thigh. "Use your head or use your legs."

"But you've had to redo things even before Miss Carrie was here to help you, correct?"

"Sometimes people change the specifications after I have started building. Then, I have to undo some of the work and re-do it."

"Why does that happen?"

"People are sometimes mistaken."

"And then they tell you things that are not true?"

"Yes."

"Do you think sometimes people tell you things that aren't true for other reasons?"

Miss Felicia shifted in her seat. She said nothing. Andrew said nothing for a while, his brow knotted.

"No. There would be no logical reason to do that."

"What about illogical reasons?"

Andrew shook his head. "No. Reasons are logical by definition."

"What if..." Lutitia thought a moment. "Someone wants something to break? And so they tell you that the load on a support is less than what it actually is?"

"That would not be a good reason. Things must not break, or people might be injured."

"What if the intention is to hurt people?"

Andrew stared at Lutitia, trying to wrap his mind round the concept.

"People get hurt in... in accidents." His eyes briefly turned to Carrie. "There is no intention to hurt people. It was an accident. A..." His breath shivered. "A mistake."

Miss Felicia put her teaspoon in her cup with a loud clink. "Dr. McGee? I think it's time Andrew and Carrie went back to work."

Lutitia and Miss Felicia exchanged glances. Lutitia gave a minute nod, stood up.

"Thank you, Mr. Parsons. This has been most interesting. What are you going to do now?"

"I am going to finish the electromechanical controls for the Tracked Vehicle Mark one." He stood up, and with mechanical precision put on his goggles and his ear muffs. Without another word, he turned round and walked into the workshop. We said goodbye to Miss Felicia and Miss Carrie, and walked outside.

 
"He's incredible," said Lutitia. "He sees the world as it really is."

"Um," I said. "Is that a problem? Don't we all?"

Lutitia shook her head. "No we don't. You would be surprised how little of our vision is actually done by the eyes. Most of it is done by the brain. Our little primate brains have been conditioned to recognise the important things. Whether there's tasty food over there. Whether there's a bear hiding behind the tree. And we are re-purposing that brain to do sums. But he doesn't. He has no concept of lying. He has no concept of making a mistake. He has no concept of wishing harm on anyone." Lutitia walked a few steps in silence, spoke as if to herself. "He does have some underlying anxiety, though."

"In the set-to we had here last year, someone shot at him. Andrew got angry, and chased the villain through the hall. Miss Carrie got in the way. She fell and broke her wrist."

Lutitia blew out a breath slowly. "So he does make mistakes sometimes. That must be upsetting. But Miss Carrie seems to have forgiven him."

"It seems so." I hesitated a moment. "Did you notice anything about Miss Carrie's behaviour?"

A hint of amusement crept into Lutitia's expression. "Behaviour?"

"She, um, seemed to be drawing some attention to herself."

"Did she?"

"That thing she did with her hair."

"Lovely hair on that girl."

"I believe you lot call it..." I coughed a little. "Preening?"

"Oh yes." Lutitia grinned broadly. "She was preening alright. If we'd have stayed another fifteen minutes, she would have been fanning herself and top buttons would be opened."

"I knew it! God, I'd have thought at my age that sort of thing would have stopped. I'm too old for this!"

I walked on a few steps, only to notice that Lutitia had stopped. She was holding her stomach and her face was red. She caught up with me nearly helpless with laughter.

"Oh you old goat! Lusting after students, are you? For shame!"

"Absolutely not! By no means! She is the one... And I'm not having it!"

Lutitia would have fallen over if she hadn't grabbed my shoulder for support. Tears were streaming down her face.

"The bad news is, Miss StJohn is lusting after a faculty member." She took a few deep breaths. "But for you, the good news is that she's not after you."

"She..." I fell silent.

Lutitia smiled, batted her eyelids.

"You?!"

"Fraid so."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh thank goodness."

"Speak for yourself." Lutitia walked on, and I followed her. "Now I have to let the poor girl down gently."

 

---

 
I returned to my chambers, to find a message from Professor Clifford Parker of Applied Physics. His speciality is electricity, magnetism, and other eldritch studies. He is a capital fellow, even if he does have a habit of rabbiting on about frequencies, forces, currents of God only knows what, and imaginary numbers. Much like Prof. Brassica of Homoeopathy. Still, it is hard to deny that he has made some good progress, eavesdropping on the conversations of Prometheus. So when he tells me he has news, I don't ignore him.

I made my way to his new lair in the University bell tower. It was a different sort of place from the one before. No longer was it filled with the crackle of lightening, the smell of ozone and hydrochloric acid, the unworldly bluish light that seemed to shine through one's very being. There was now a neat row of desks, on which were tasteful pinewood cabinets with an array of differently coloured lights, gauges, dials, and switches. I recognised them as Hermes devices, but of Dr. Parker's own design. A handful of students were peering at the instruments, writing down measurements. One wall was taken up by a world map, and differently coloured flags and pins were dotted about.

Parker turned round in his chair.

"Ah. W-w-Wadcroft! How are you?"

"Fine Parker. How goes the world beyond sight?"

Parker waved a hand at the map. "The electromagnetic spectrum is getting noisier and noisier. More p-people are joining in on the fun."

"The more the merrier," I said. "Are they saying anything interesting?"

"The P-p-Prometheus lot are still spewing their usual d-drivel. W-we've had to t-turn off the daisy wheel. It chews through a whole roll of p-paper in one day."

"Nice of them to keep your students busy at least."

Parker stepped over to one of the cabinets. "They aren't the only ones. W-we have found stations that don't use the Hermes p-protocol."

"I beg your pardon?"

"They don't w-work the same way as P-Prometheus' devices. And I don't have a w-working model to take to bits."

"Ah. So a dead end, then?"

"Oh ye of little faith," said Parker. "We have instruments to see what the electric waves are doing, but the problem is that it is always too quick for the eye to follow. And we can only study them when they're talking. Not much to go on, but we're working with the Trinity lot and our own students Uda and Yagi who are up in Edinburgh. We can at least take bearings on where they are. But not a notion of what they're saying." Parker pointed at the world map. "One of them is most likely in Caracas, in Mesoamerica, and another in North Sudan. Bit hard to say. The first time we noticed them, we only had the George Bennett Array and the Trinity Station. We had almost the same bearing, so the error margin really messes you up."

 
"Professor!" One of the boys on the machines called out.

Parker turned round. "Dankworth. What is it?"

"Mercury device sir. Azimuth one thirty-four. Looks like Africa again."

"Well done Dankworth. Report it to the others."

Another boy called out. "Report coming in, Sir! Trinity. Same frequency, Azimuth one twenty-six. It's Reid again Sir. First as usual. Bloody showoff."

"Good for him," said Parker. "Thank you Fernsby."

"Report sent Sir," said Dankworth.

"Report incoming," said Fernsby. "One thirty two degrees, thirty minutes, plus or minus ten. Looks like Uda's been fiddling with his meters again, Sir."

"I expect the new schematics will be on their way." Parker walked up to the world map. "Let's see what the numbers say."

Dr. Parker knew his geodesics. Whatever the Flat Earth Society may have to say on the matter, you can't simply draw a straight line on a flat map and come out where you expect to. A little trigonometry later, and he could move the marker for the Mercury device a little bit. The circle round it had shrunk by the tiniest amount.

"Fifteen twenty-four North, Thirty-two thirty-five East, plus or minus four minutes. Biscuit goes to Reid for being the first."

"Hope he chokes on it Sir," said Dankworth.

"Pay attention next time, Dank."

"Stick it where the sun doesn't shine, Fernsby."

"Parker?" I said, pointing at the map. "Those coordinates are suspiciously close to Khartoum."

Parker nodded. "They p-p-probably are. But we want to be accurate. I w-wish we had more stations, further apart. In Great Britain, we could drop a p-penny on the spot. Further away gives us t-trouble."

"Are you anywhere near figuring out what they are saying?"

Parker finished putting the reports in the log book, closed it.

"Not a chance. P-Prometheus use amplitude-modulated pulses. If we hadn't got the d-data from P-Paris..." He rubbed his forehead with his hand, lost for a moment in distressing memories. "Then we w-wouldn't have a chance of interpreting their signals." Parker pulled himself together. "But we do have a new way of analysing. It's on the showy side, but it w-works."

 
He took me to a table where there was a strange apparatus. It consisted of a sewer pipe mounted horizontally. A gutta percha hose ran to a large red metal bottle marked 'Natural Gas.'

"Let me hook up the frequency generator." Parker pulled a cabinet off a shelf and connected some electric wires. "This device can generate wave forms in the uncanny spectrum of the celestial infinite."

I must admit that I may have missed some of the more subtle details. Not my area, you understand? Parker turned on the gas, lit a match, and the top of the tube lit up in flames. He performed some magical gestures over the controls, and a noise came out of the instrument, somewhat like a low whistle.

"This is a Rubens t-t-tube." He manipulated his device, and the tones it was emitting rose and lowered in pitch like an insane fiddler. "Invented by a German chap named Heinrich Rubens." As this unholy music continued, the flames above the tube rose and lowered, until Parker achieved a nice regular wave of higher and lower flames.

"Very nice!" I had to shout over the din. "But what is it good for?"

"It lets us observe the wave forms and resonant frequency of the incoming signals. It's primitive, but at least it gives us something to look at. We tried using galvanometers, but the needle can't keep up. A flame can rise and fall several times per second."

"Professor!"

"Yes Sallow?"

"Mesoamerica Sir, coming in on the GBA."

Parker tuned round. "Dankworth!"

"Turning Sir," said Dankworth, moving the cranked adjustment wheel as fast as he could. "Max at two-five-five"

Sallow came running up to the flame tube holding two wires which he pushed into the Rubens' tube. I had to take a step back and wonder, as another report by the very astute student Reid at Trinity came in. Somewhere cross the world, someone was operating a magic box, and all the way here, at home, in Ipswich, Suffolk, it was making flames dance up and down in a mesmerising rhythm. The notion of travel came to me unbidden, the memory of standing on the bridge of the airship Lady I as it approached Orly airport of Paris. The flickering lights of...

I touched Sparker's shoulder.

"Not now, Wadcroft."

"Those lights," I said, eyes on the dancing flames flickering on and off.

"Yes, they show where the nodes and anti-nodes are. Shut up, I'm trying to take a reading."

"Damn it, Parker! They are Aldis lights!"

Parker gaped at me, turned his head back to the flames, back to me. "Samuel Morse."

Now that we knew what we were looking at, it was unmistakable. Long and short pulses spelling out secret massages across the vast distance of the world. The message ended, and we were left staring at pretty flames burning steadily above the pipe. The fast response of Mr. Reid in Dublin, and the slow but more precise one from Messrs. Uda and Yagi in Edinburgh were duly registered in the log book.

Parker sat down on his chair.

"Sodding Aldis lights," he said. "We need someone who can read Aldis Lights." He chuckled at himself. "B-b-biscuit to W-Wadcroft."

 
I walked back to my chambers, absurdly pleased, nibbling on a chocolate chip biscuit that had already started going soft. Among the many disciplines taught at Algernon University, there were sadly no maritime subjects. I would have to write to the Ipswich Maritime Institute, where no doubt, students were taught the art of sending words through the air borne by light. Undergrads are a bizarre form of currency between universities, and I was sure I could swap them some of my Geology students.

But first, I had to ask Chancellor Malcolm Munroe for permission. Chancellors tend to get upset if you give away their students without asking. I made my way to the office of Malcolm's secretary, an utterly charming lady named Clarice.

"I must speak with him at once!"

Clarice's door is always open, mainly so that Malcolm's doesn't have to be. It seemed that someone had taken this in entirely the wrong spirit.

Clarice's voice did not rise above a friendly conversational tone. "Do you have an appointment, Sir?"

The English word Sir is quite a versatile one. It is the correct title for a knight, a simple honorific for an unfamiliar male person, the polite way to start a letter, and, in this case, a term for You uneducated rampaging pompous swine.

"Did you not hear me? At once! This is a matter of extreme importance!"

Clarice noticed me, gave me a little smile. "Ah. Wadcroft. Please excuse me a moment while I deal with this gentleman."

When she entered the employ of Malcolm Munroe, it had been made clear to her that she was not required to take any nonsense from anyone, except perhaps Queen Victoria. Since Her Majesty was not in the habit of dealing out nonsense, that was acceptable.

"Madam," said the gentleman. "I am captain Jack Hawkins. Within twenty-four hours, my ice-breaker the Indefatigable will set course for the South Pole, and prove once and for all that there is no land beneath the Antarctic ice shelf, and that a clear route exists to the South end of the Earth! And now one of your scientists tells me that we are not allowed anywhere near Dyer's Mountains?"

"You need an exemption for that, Sir, if that location is on the inadvisable locations list."

"A fig for your damned inadvisable locations! My ancestors are known for finding whatever we set out to find. Do you think we let the mere hint of danger stop us?"

"Most admirable, Sir." Clarice ran her finger down the Agenda. "The Chancellor is unavoidably detained until five forty-five this afternoon. I can make an appointment for you then."

"Damn it, woman! This is urgent!"

"Then I shall mark it as such." Clarice picked up a pencil, wrote the Captain's name down. She added the word Urgent and underlined it with a sense of finality. "Will that be all?"

"I do not appreciate being kept waiting, Madam."

Clarice gave him a slightly slanted nod. "Then I suggest you be punctual." She looked at me. "Wadcroft. How may I help you?"

"Pardon me Miss Clarice," I said. "Sir, you said you were a sea captain?"

"Indeed I am, Sir. I am Captain Jack Hawkins of the ice-breaker Indefatigable, the finest craft ever to brave the Arctic seas."

"Ah. In that case, may I ask, can you read Aldis lights?"

"Of course! Communications with one's fleet are of the utmost importance. Not even Samuel Morse himself could signal quicker than I can read."

"Then you, Captain, may be the man I am looking for. Since you find yourself at loose ends for a few hours, could I ask you a favour?"

"You may, Sir. Confounded red tape and bureaucracy tie me to this spot."

"One of my colleagues has constructed a device that uses the same signals as an Aldis light, but he himself does not have your skill. Could you see your way clear to interpreting the signals for him?"

"Since I have nothing else to do..." Captain Hawkins glared at Clarice, who was watching us with a polite expression on her face. "I may as well assist you."

"Thank you, Captain." I turned to Clarice. "I'll be back for the other matter some other time. Pardon me for depriving you of your company."

"One day, Wadcroft, I will find it in my heart to forgive you."

 

---

 
"In the cold waters of the Arctic, when a storm is about to break, when Boreas himself takes a breath before unleashing his fury upon you, the sea has a colour for which there is no name."

"You could try to mix it with paint, Sir," said Sallow. "Have it named after you."

"I would never presume to, lad. Some things are meant to be forever beyond the ken of humans."

"That's what they said about lightening, Sir." Fernsby reached behind him and threw a switch. The Jacob's Ladder, a high-tension electrical experiment, started to show its blueish arcs, climbing up, disappearing, only to re-appear at the bottom. "And look at us now."

"Turn that off Fernsby," said Dankworth. "You're interfering with the readings."

"Hah!" Captain Hawkins took a drink of hot chocolate. "You remind me of myself when I was your age. I've learnt much since that time. But what I learnt most is what we don't know. Remember that lads. You think you find answers, but all you get is more questions. You may think we know everything, but we don't."

"Of course we don't know everything," said Sallow. "If we knew everything, you'd think we'd get afternoons off."

"Incoming!"

Dankworth started to turn the wheel that rotated the antenna at the top of the tower through a complicated system of gears and cables. Sparker had fitted a light to the incoming signal to replace the melodramatic flames, and Captain Hawkins picked up a pencil and wrote down what the light said.

PNAL Rapportez position.

Dankworth sneered. "Damn you, Reid. Incoming report, Professor."

"Record it, Mr. Dankworth," said Parker.

The light remained off for a minute or so. Then it started to flicker again.

PNAL Attendez.

"They're speaking French!" said the Captain. "Do they think they can fool me that easily?"

Fernsby looked at the Captain's notepad. "The first one said 'Report your position' and the second said 'Attend.' Easy!"

There was another message.

PNAL Nouveau Azimuth 260. Distance 20 km. Bonne chance. CLCAR Fin.

"New course two hundred and sixty degrees," said the Captain. "That's west-by-south. Distance twenty kilometres. Good luck." He looked up. "They are directing someone towards a goal. Where is this? And why aren't they answering?"

Parker pointed at the battery of, well, batteries standing along the wall. "They are mobile. They can't bring a full power apparatus. Their signal is too weak for us to see."

"What's PNAL mean?" I asked. "And CLCAR? Are they nautical terms perhaps?"

"Not that I know," said the Captain. "And I know all nautical terms."

"Some sort of name maybe?" said Dankworth. "Penal talking to Clicker?"

"Do you see what I mean?" Captain Hawkins laughed. "Now you have learnt only that you know nothing. He pulled out a watch. "And now I am afraid I must go to meet the Chancellor."

"Let me take you," I said.

 
We walked back to the Chancellor's office where Clarice was just packing up her things to go home. She looked at Captain Hawkins like something one might find crawling under a stone.

"Where is Chancellor Monroe?"

"It's five minutes to six, Sir."

The door to Munroe's door opened and he came out, coat on. Captain Hawkins pounced on him.

"Chancellor! I need to speak to you."

Munroe sneered behind his beard. "Oh you are the captain?"

"Captain Hawkins, Sir. And apparently I need your permission to sail my ship where I must go."

"You do if you are carrying my faculty members."

"Well then, about Dyer's mountains..."

"Captain Hawkins. I've spent this whole blessed day talking to every sort and kind of idiot. And now I am going home because Mabel will be waiting for me with dinner. As for your exemption..." Malcolm put his hat on and made for the door. "It's a sodding mountain ye daft prick! What are ye going tae do? Sail yer boat intae it? Sail round it. Good night Clarice, good night Wadcroft, good night Captain."

 
And that day went into the history books as the day Captain Jack almost caught Chancellor Malcolm Munroe.

Agent Wainwright: Uncomfortable truths

Enlightenment from the dark room - On the trail of the airship Boreas - The mysterious Mr. O - The return of Master Nazeem - The examination of Jocelyn Vale - Homeward bound

 

SAY CHEESE Linda Davenport reporting

 

Prof. Lowe of High Energy Alchemy announces that as the new photography lab has been put into operation with its state of the art equipment and facilities, the old lab is now standing vacant. Rather than dismantling it, he suggests that students with an interest in photography make use of it. The Alchemy department is willing to donate its surplus of photographic paper, the required chemicals, and maybe a little instruction on the use of the equipment. So if you have always wanted to be in a dark room lit by a dim red light and expose yourself, or have recently developed an interest, stop by Prof. Lowe's chambers and he'll fix you up. Don't forget your bath afterwards.

 
Linda dear. Do you have any idea how grubby that last bit sounds? -- RP

No. -- LD

Oh come on! Red light? Expose yourself? -- RP

I don't know what you are talking about. All perfectly legitimate photography references. -- LD

You are either evil, or too innocent for this world. -- RP

 

---

 
Arkham's railway station is on the north side of the Miskatonic River that gives the University its name. It has a few guestrooms where weary travellers can rest their heads if they have missed their trains or need a temporary lair from which to operate. They do a typically American breakfast of poached eggs, bacon, sausages, and the tiny pancakes that one is expected to smother in maple syrup. I was wondering what to do with my cup of a brown substance sold to me as 'tea' when the door opened and Professor Pike came in.

"Good morning Professor," I said. "I'd offer you tea, but it's been made by Yanks."

"Directly violating the Geneva Convention."

I got up and left my cup. I felt guilty about leaving the waitress to deal with this dark matter, but then again, she was the one who poured it out in the first place. I took Pike to my room.

"How is our dear daughter?"

"In the capable hands of the head nurse," he said. "She is treating this like a sick day without the associated sickness."

I closed the door behind us. The photographs I had taken were still in their hiding place behind the curtains. I opened the manilla envelope and took out the pictures.

"These are large photographs," said Pike. "Did you bring the equipment to make them?"

"There's a photo shop down Hyde Street." I laid them out on the table. "They let you use their equipment for a reasonable fee. They even provide the chemicals. Most of their customers are Miskatonic scientists who don't trust their precious negatives to the University laboratories. Especially the more outré ones."

Pike bent over the pictures. "Maybe they need a quiet place to manipulate the images somewhat, perhaps to... accentuate some of the more interesting aspects?"

"How dare you." I turned up the gas light to see better. "How dare you cast aspersions upon the scientific integrity of the worthy Men of Science that call Miskatonic University home."

"Perish the thought. What have you found?"

"Copies of Boreas's log book. The last report was from Caracas where they took on supplies. Coal thirty two tons, water..." I ran down the list. "Milk, eggs, bacon, tins of meat, flour, yeast, vegetables, beans, potatoes, tinned fruit.. your common shopping list. Enough for twenty four crew for two weeks. Hmm." I held up the list. "Buttermilk brackets St. Patrick? Someone added that to the end."

"I'd assume that would be St. Patrick's day. buttermilk is an ingredient to soda bread. Maybe there were some Irishmen on board."

"Here's the muster roll."

Pike ran his finger down the list of names. "Kelly. Murray. Mr. Unknown. O'Rourke - deceased. Sweeney. Walsh. Enough of them to observe the tradition of wearing green and getting very very drunk. Mr. O. Who are you and why didn't you want us to know you were on board?"

"I've no idea." I picked up another page. "Look at this. It's their orders. Proceed Southward and find the lost city of... what?"

"Anctapolepl," Pike said. "Now that is interesting. That name. It was made up by Captain Philip Tennant. It's not even a proper Nahuatl name, because Tennant didn't want to speak of it. Wadcroft used the name as it was written."

"That means the Arkham lot lifted their information from Tennant's report. A bit rude, I'd say." All my guilt about stealing their information went up in a puff of smoke. I pointed. "Here it mentions Lady I. It says 'Friendly. Assist when needed.' Maybe they forgot that bit."

"But who shot first? Who was on board Lady I? Or Boreas for that matter?" Pike drummed his fingers on the table a few times. "There is only one way to find out, and I'm too old for jungle missions."

"Maybe Jocelyn wants to broaden her horizons? Her legs are young and strong."

"I'm sure that if we put it reasonably to Mr. Vale, he will see his way clear to signing the waivers."

 
"It would be better if none of you were to seek out the City."

We turned round. Standing by the door was a tall dark stranger with a long black beard flecked with grey, wearing a black suit of Indian cut, and a dark blue silk shirt. A dark blue turban was on his head and he looked at us with coal-black eyes. His arms were crossed in front of him. I will never make fun of astrologers again.

"Wainwright?" said Pike. "You did lock the door didn't you?"

"More trouble not to," I said. "Force of habit."

The stranger laughed quietly. "To Nazeem, it matters not whether doors are open or closed. He can pass through regardless. The Spirit of Air grants him this gift."

"Mr. Nazeem," said Pike. "I have read much about you."

"Dr. Wadcroft has written much about Nazeem." He smiled. "Little of which bears more than a passing resemblance to the truth. But do not hold that against him. Unknown to Others are the ways of Nazeem."

"Evidently," said Pike. "Why are you here, if I may ask?"

"To put at your disposal certain facts that it has been given Nazeem to know. These facts concern the fate of the airship Boreas and that of Lady I."

"That's most helpful of you," I said. "Who are you working for?"

"Nazeem works for the good of all Humanity. It has been his honour to do this as a member of the Ancient and Mystical Order of the Cross and Moon."

"I have heard that name," said Pike. "Wadcroft mentions it in his reports."

"It has been Nazeem's pleasure to travel with the Professor and his companions, the Tennant family. But of them, I have serious news."

Pike gestured at Nazeem. Pray continue.

"The crewmen of the airship Boreas have fallen victim to an evil influence, which altered their perception of the world. It is Nazeem's understanding that this is what drove them to perceive Lady I as hostile and attack. Lady I returned fire, and the airship Boreas was consumed by fire and fell to the forest floor."

"What happened to Lady I?" I said.

"Upon this subject, the spirits have revealed nothing to Nazeem, though it is his belief that, should the Tennant family have perished, he would know."

"Where are they? Alive or dead."

"They are near the cursed City that both Captain Philip and Boreas have sought and found. Also present are Nicholas Slate and his henchmen."

"We ought to send an airship of our own there," said Pike.

"Nazeem again advises you not to. The Spirits are unwilling to bless any air-borne expedition. Your bones would lie next to the bones of those who have already perished. Stay away. These are the words of Nazeem."

Nazeem raised an arm and waved. Behind us, the window clattered open with a bang, and when we looked back, Nazeem was no longer there. Pike and I looked at each other, then at our photographs on the table. I gathered them up and put them back in their envelope.

"We've learnt everything here that we can," said Pike. "Let's pick up Jocelyn and get out of here."

 

---

 
"It'll most likely take me a while to extract our daughter."

I only nodded and leaned against the cab. The driver watched Pike walk towards the grotesque architecture of Miskatonic University's lower campus.

"Did that man leave his daughter in that place?"

"Only for a little while," I said.

"What's wrong with people?"

I sighed. "She's got hallucinations of things beyond the ken of Man."

"No. I meant what's wrong with him? You don't leave anyone you care about here! Is she alone?"

"Not... really."

"Oh God." The driver climbed into the box. "It's only fair to tell you now. I charge extra for high speeds."

"I'm sure that won't be..." I was cut short by the rare sight of an elderly University professor at a full gallop.

"Wainwright! They've taken her!" Pike jumped past me into the cab, tuned to the driver. "Do you know the Upper Campus?"

"Better than I like," said the driver. "Which building?"

"The Greenwood Home Annex, the psychological clinic."

"Christ save us," said the driver.

I leapt into the cab with Pike.

"Hurry, man!" He sounded more distressed than I'd expect of a dyed-in-the-wool spy.

The cab sprinted off, down College street, onto Burgundy Street, then left onto Aylesbury Street that led to the Upper Campus.

"These idiots are going to perform experiments on her!" Pike leaned out of the window. "Faster, man!"

"Hyaah!" The driver cracked his whip.

I noticed that the cab did not speed up even the slightest. I guessed that people regularly needed to get to Miss U in a hurry, and the driver wasn't about to break his horse's legs.

"He's going to charge us extra for this, Pike."

Pike stared at me, and I was struck by his sheer horror. "The first time I take her out of Ipswich, and now this!"

"Pike." I put my hand on his shoulder. "We'll find her. We'll get her. It'll be all right."

He settled down in his seat, stared at his feet. "I should never have agreed to this. This is all a big mistake."

 
We thundered around the University's Upper Campus, past the sports field where students were flying around on broomsticks, playing some kind of ball game. The cab screeched to a halt by a strange domed building.

"Wait here!" Pike stormed out towards the building.

The driver and I exchanged glances, and he tapped the meter.

"Yeah, yeah."

I ran after Pike and caught up with him at the door. We entered, and a startled receptionist asked us who we were.

"Pike," he said. "Godfrey Pike. Where is Jocelyn."

The receptionist started looking through her list. Down the hallway, I could hear voices. I started towards the sound.

"Hey!" The receptionist jumped up from her chair. "You are not allowed!"

I ignored her, and opened the door where I'd heard Jocelyn's voice. The room was dimly lit with gas lamps. Jocelyn was in the middle of the room, strapped arms and legs to a hospital bed. There was a strap round her head from which linen-wrapped hoses snaked to a large metal cabinet with all kinds of knobs and gauges on. I stepped forward. Jocelyn was in a frightful state, her face wet with tears, screaming at the top of her voice.

"I wasn't going to cut him! I just wanted them to leave me alone! It was rouge not blood!"

There were three men in there, all in their fifties, none of them bigger and stronger than I am. I ignored them and walked up to Jocelyn.

"Hush darling. I'm here to get you out of here."

I unstrapped the thing from her head carefully. There was nothing piercing her skin, but there were smears of some kind of grease.

"Wainwright? I got caught. I got caught! Horrible! Please, no!"

I tried to look into her eyes, but she couldn't focus, couldn't keep her gaze steady. Her pupils were large. I put my hand on her cheek.

"Jocelyn." I tried to sound as calm as I could. What had they done to her? "It's all good. I'll get you out of here."

"It's... all good. All good."

I released the straps on her legs, on her wrists and shoulders. I asked her to sit up, but she couldn't. One of the men tried to grab my arm, and I shrugged him off.

"You, Sir, are interfering with an important experiment."

"Good." When dealing with this kind of people, it's important not to get bogged down in discussions.

"I must insist that you leave at once!"

I was clearly dealing with an intellectual. I briefly considered the trusty left hook to the face, but at that moment the door slammed open and Pike entered. God, the expression on his face! I could have fired a gun in the room and not commanded the same amount of attention Pike was getting.

"Doctor Ferdinand Ashley." The words sounded like a pronouncement of doom. "You are conducting... procedures upon my daughter. In my absence."

"Mr. Pike," said Ashley. "I am aware that these things may be confusing to the layman, but I am gathering important data essential to the subject's state of..."

Pike slammed his fist down on a trolley containing hypodermic needles, jars of God knows what, and other medical equipment.

"I am not interested in your explanations. You have violated the person of my daughter. There will be consequences. But first, we must see to Jocelyn."

Pike looked at me, and I picked up Jocelyn and walked off with her while Pike stared down the assembled Men of Science.

"I would suggest you set your affairs in order," said Pike. "You may be away for a good stretch."

Pike followed me outside. He quickly caught up with me. "How is she?"

"Drugged up to the eyeballs, some kind of truth serum, but no worse." I looked into Pike's eyes. "She'll be fine."

"I'm fine!" In my arms, Jocelyn broke into uncontrollable giggles. She clumsily wrapped her arms round my neck. "You're very very handsome Wainwright. Do you like cuddles? I like cuddles." She tried to point at me, and nearly poked my eye out. "Strictly no ravishing. Is frowned upon."

Pike took a deep breath, and his shoulders sagged. He shook his head.

"Wainwright? How do you do it?"

 
The driver had helpfully turned round his cab, got into the box, and opened the door. I put Jocelyn down on the seat, and she leaned into me, rubbing her cheek against my shoulder with her eyes closed. Pike sat down next to her, took her hand. The driver looked in on us.

"Where to, Sirs?"

"To the station. Normal speed."

 

---

 
I was sitting at the table in my room. The afternoon was getting on. Pike was out buying airship tickets, and Jocelyn was asleep in the bed. She moved slowly, turned over, turned back, opened her eyes. She stared at me.

"Um," she said. Her voice was hoarse, and she coughed. "What... what?"

I poured her a cup of tea. I'd had to ask for milk specially.

"How are you feeling?"

Jocelyn blew on her tea, took a careful sip. "I'm... good." She looked at me. "They came for me just after Dr. Pike left. Ashlee and the head nurse. They gave me some medicine. I thought it was just another sleeping draught, but the whole world just went..." She shuddered, took another sip of tea. "And then I was on that bed, and they gave me an injection, and that was even worse." Her hand shook and I took the cup from her before she could spill hot tea on herself.

"They call it a truth serum. It has been used in interrogations, but it's rubbish. They may not be able to lie, but they can't say anything useful either. They only say yes to anything you ask."

Jocelyn buried her face in her hands. "Oh God, what did I say?"

"Nothing," I said. "Just words. No meaning to them."

"Oh God." Jocelyn stared straight ahead of her without seeing anything. "I remember. I said you were handsome. I wanted to... cuddle. Oh God." Her eyes turned to me, wide open, fearful.

"Jocelyn." I took her hand. "That was only the truth serum talking."

She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"That's not helping."

 
The door opened and Pike came in. He saw Jocelyn was awake and walked up to her.

"My dear. I am dreadfully sorry for what happened this morning. It was entirely my fault for leaving you with those..." He swallowed a word. "People."

"It's all good," said Jocelyn. "I'm not... I'm... not."

"We are going to take you home, Jocelyn. We have what we came for. You have done a marvellous job. I haven't, and I am sorry for not taking better care of you."

"Professor. It's not your fault. It's those... people. They poured me full of brain juice and tied me to some bloody machine. Aren't we going to do something about that?"

Pike opened his mouth to say something, closed it again.

"No," I said.

Jocelyn looked at me, unbelieving.

"We are spies. We purposely break the laws of the land. I climbed up to their library, cut out their window, crept into their archives and stole their secrets. If they'd have caught me, I'd be in prison now. We operate outside the law, so we are not under its protection. And you helped me. Our only defence is to run and to hide."

"Come on," said Pike. "Our airship leaves at five. We don't want to miss it."

 

---

 
There is an aviator's term. 'Feet Wet.' It's when your airship leaves the shore and flies over sea or ocean. We got our feet wet by eight in the evening, and the moon glittered on the waves of the Atlantic Ocean far below. Pike had gone to bed. Jocelyn and I had gone for a well deserved beer for me, lemonade for Jocelyn. Even though she was old enough to have an occasional glass of wine, she was in no mood for mind-altering substances. She picked up her glass and walked to the large observation window. She looked out over the endless magical seascape. I stood next to her.

"You did well, Miss Vale."

"I know."

We stood in silence for a while.

"Do you know the name of Maisie Dors?"

I shook my head. "Who is she?"

"It's not her real name. She was one of Dr. Pike's wards. He lost her on a job. The poor woman was tortured to death in ways to make you sick to your stomach. Even if you read the watered-down report."

"Ah. I know the story. Agent Quentin asked to be transferred to Outfitting after that."

"I've met him. In Folkestone. He seems nice."

"One of the few old spies," I said.

"Dr. Pike blames himself for what happened to Maisie." Jocelyn sipped her drink. She turned her eyes to me. "If anything bad had happened to me, he'd never forgive himself."

"That's why he retired," I said. "Don't tell him I know that."

"I think..." She hesitated a moment. "I think he was right to. He put me in harm's way, true. But I asked him to. Begged him to. What happened today, is nobody's fault but my own, and that of those Men of Science." She spat out the words. "He's still stuck in the past. And having another girl land in the fire is not going to help that."

"I suppose not," I said.

She finished her drink, put the glass on a table behind her.

"This week, I aided and abetted a burglary at Miskatonic University's library. I pretended to be crazy and got away with it. I got more dope pumped into me than even Carrie can dream of. Strapped to a bed to be experimented on by a genuine batch of mad scientists." She bumped her hip into mine. "Nearly got ravished by a very handsome secret agent."

"Tell me who he is, and I'll kill him for you. That sort of thing is severely frowned upon."

Her laugh was infectious. "For what it's worth..."

I put my finger on my lips, shook my head.

"Even if I won't be ravished tonight. Even after all that happened. All the fright. Everything." She turned round, looked at me, her hair sliding down her shoulder.

"I'm still not sorry I signed up for this."

Philip Tennant: Do unto others

Dinner and Distrust - Birth of a conspiracy - The coming of the False King - Martial arts - Speaking to the Gods - Last rites - The wind changes

 

WOMEN'S FOOTBALL TEAM VISITS Rina Prescott reporting

 

There was much excitement today when the Scottish national women's football team, who brought home the silver medal in the Pan-European championship this year, visited our University for an afternoon of sports. Many of our students took the opportunity to have their picture taken with the hugely popular team. These women continue to be an inspiration to any girl who has ever dreamed of a career in sports. The ladies were kind enough to head out onto the pitch and demonstrate all the techniques that rightly earned them a silver medal. There was also a friendly demonstration game against our boys' team. All in all an experience none of us will easily forget.

 
Who won? -- LD

France, I think. We wuz robbed. -- RP

No, I mean the friendly demo against the Cranks. -- LD

Don't know. Had to leave early. -- RP

Oh God, that bad? --LD

 

---

 
It was the early afternoon, and the farmers had come in from the outside. All over the City, dinner was bubbling away on the tenamaztli, and there was some time to relax, to enjoy oneself. One of the men had brought out the heavy rubber ball used for the game of Ullamaliztli, where the players bump the ball with their hips in a spectacular display of daring and disregard for broken bones. Brenda and I were sitting on one of the benches, watching the game, listening to the chatter and cheers of the young girls sitting behind us.

"So how does this work?" said Brenda. "Last one who can still walk wins?"

I pointed. "You want to keep the ball in the other people's court. A little like volleyball. Let it bounce more than twice and you lose a point."

"I thought you had to put it through the hoops."

"You can," I said. "That's an instant win for your team. But you lose points for trying and failing."

Brenda's eyes followed the ball. "Have to hand it to them. They don't hold back."

"Don't tell me you want to join in?"

"Hell no! I like my hips the way they are."

I had to laugh. "Are you sure? Think of the prizes. You could win the privilege of being sacrificed to Tlaloc or Huitzilopochtli."

"Well, that'll put some fire into your hips." Brenda frowned. "Wait. What? The winners get sacrificed?"

"Yes, they do. And they do try their very best to win. Unbelievable, but true." I looked up at the Temple. "At worst, you die knowing you have helped your fellows to a new sunrise. At best, you are transported instantly to the seat of the Gods, there to dwell in eternity. The people believed that without sacrifice, the sun would fail to rise and everybody would die."

"Heh. Like the Earth would stop spinning because you don't get your heart ripped out? That's stupid."

"Yes." I heaved a deep sigh, half expecting Lady Itzel to be sitting on my other side, with that little knowing smile I loved so much. "People often underestimate how dangerous it is to believe stupid things."

 
Behind us, the girls stopped talking. I looked round. Quetzalcoatl Totec Tlamacazqui Xiuhtecuhtli was standing next to us. I rose to my feet and gave him a nod.

"Greetings, Alchemist," he said. "Are you enjoying the game?"

"I wish I could join in, Tlamacazqui. But I have only a steel leg, not steel hips."

"I know that feeling," said Xiuhtecuhtli. "I once scored a hoop in an important game. There is nothing like it. But at my age, if I were fool enough to walk into the court, I would be destroyed."

"We must leave the young to their own pursuits."

"Just so." Xiuhtecuhtli waved a hand in the direction of the entrance. "My fellow priests and I are about to have dinner. Would you join us? One of the hunters has brought down a capybara, and gifted it to us in thanks for our prayers on his behalf."

"I would be honoured," I said. "If you would have me."

"Gladly." Xiuhtecuhtli turned round to leave.

"Captain?" Brenda stood next to me without me having seen her move. "Where are you going?"

"To dinner with the gentleman priest."

Brenda's eyes narrowed. "Will you be needin' any protecting?"

I gave her a smile, shook my head. "I'll be among friends. Why don't you keep watching the game?"

She gave me a look, nodded, sat back down. As I turned round to leave with my priest friend, Brenda's fellow warrior Tupoc walked up and sat down next to her. She gave him a sneer, turned her eyes back to the game. Tupoc started to chat her up in Nahuatl and she told him to get lost in English.

 
I left them to it and followed Xiuhtecuhtli to Ichtacka's chambers, where he and Yaotel were sitting in low chairs, enjoying drinks of Xocolatl. Ichtacka himself poured us both a cup, and I silently toasted the memory of Itzel.

"Greetings Philip," said Ichtacka. "Has Xiuhtecuhtli told you why we are meeting?"

"Beyond the prospect of an excellent meal, he has not."

Yaotel laughed. "And why would we need anything beyond that?"

"I am a simple man," I said. "I am easily lured by pleasures of the table. You are not."

"Alchemist," said Ichtacka. The smallest hint in his voice told me to be careful with my words. "Tell me again. Why are you here?"

I didn't answer immediately. I looked into the eyes of each of my dinner companions in turn. Yaotel, Xiuhtecuhtli, Ichtacka.

"I came here because Lady Itzel told me to return. I am here to defeat Magister Nicholas Slate and drive him and the people of Prometheus out of this City. I am here to put the fate of the City back into the hands of its own people." I waited a moment. "And I am here to avenge my family."

Yaotel frowned. "You are only one man. You have one servant, and a woman at that. You are not stupid. Why do you think you can do such a thing?"

I did not answer immediately. How much should I tell? What should I tell them? What should I leave unsaid? I looked round, but there was no image of Itzel to admonish me. The reason was clear. I already knew what I must do. There was nothing left but to do it. I sat up in my chair.

"What I tell you now must never leave this room, or we will all die. I travelled here on my dirigible, Lady I, who I named after both Lady Itzel and my wife Iris. Lady I was a mighty craft. I could have done much more had she not been damaged. I have told the Magister and his cronies that Brenda and I are the only ones to survive the destruction of Lady I." I turned to Ichtacka. "To you, I said only that Brenda and I survived, which is not a lie, but not the whole truth. The whole truth is that my daughter, my son, and his wife and child all survived. They are hiding in the old cenote, watching over us. Lady I is within two day's walk." I looked at my steel leg. "For a healthy man. She is unable to fly."

Ichtacka put his cup on the table, steepled his fingers. "You tell us your deepest secrets, Alchemist. But still, I have no answer to my question. The first I ever asked you when you came here. I do not hold it against you that you did not answer before. But from this moment on, there must be no more secrets between us. For the third and final time of asking. Why are you here? What is it that drove you to travel a lifetime's walk to come here? What sun shines upon a field to produce such a harvest?"

"Magister Nicholas Slate." My voice nearly failed me. "Is my mortal enemy."

I told them all the things Slate and his minions had done to us, from the day we first met him at the Eiffel Tower in Paris, where he tried to kill all my family. The brazen attack on Algernon University where Wadcroft and Enderby were both injured. But most of all, I told them of Alexandra. How they had maltreated her, beating her, burning her skin, slowly breaking her legs. I could only imagine how she had suffered. I had only seen her on her return, damaged, reduced to a shadow of her former self. Filled with a pain and a hatred that might never drain from her soul.

"The name of Prometheus comes from an old story. Prometheus was a man most favoured by the Gods. One day, he went up to the home of the gods, and stole their fire and gave it to Mankind. For his punishment, he was chained to a rock. Every day a huge bird would come and eat his liver, you would say his tona. Every day it would grow back until the next day, for all times." I slammed my fist on the armrest of my chair. "I will not rest until Slate suffers the same fate, and I will cut out his liver myself!"

Ichtacka stood up from his chair, looking not at me but at the door. "We have a visitor, no two visitors. Not only our wonderful cook Tonalnan, but also... a friend?"

Tonalnan put down her tray. "You cannot expect a weak and feeble woman to carry all the food you priests are eating all by herself." She pointed at the table. "Chipahua, put it down there. In the middle, you silly girl!"

"Kematsin, Tonalnan."

The young girl put down the brazier and Tonalnan placed a pot on it. She looked round the room checking for rats, alchemists, and cockroaches, then told Chipahua to get on with it and walked out of the door. Chipahua put down bowls, poured us all cups of cool water, unrolled the tlaxkalli onto a plate. I didn't pay attention. I was still too wrapped up in my anger.

"I will never forgive him for what they did to Alexandra," I said.

I noticed a pair of brown eyes on me. Chipahua half opened her mouth to say something, remembered where she was and finished setting the table.

"Thank you my dear," Ichtacka said.

Chipahua nodded, gave me a final look, and left. Ichtacka and his fellow priests exchanged glances. Ichtacka reached out and pushed the dish containing the slices of capybara meat over to me.

"Please, Alchemist. Try it. It is one of Tonalnan's finest dishes."

I put a few slices into my bowl, pushed the dish over to Yaotel, who bent forward, shifted uncomfortably, reached inside his tunic and pulled out a long obsidian blade which he put on the table before taking his part and passing the dish on to Xiuhtecuhtli. He noticed me staring at the knife, smiled.

"Enjoy your meat, Alchemist."

 
If you want to know what capybara tastes like, I'm afraid I cannot tell you as I was too preoccupied. Most likely, it tasted like chicken. Most things do. I had passed the test. I was now a fellow conspirator. I could have done with a stiff Whisky to calm my nerves, but all we had was water. I drank it all the same, barely noticed the hellishly spicy filling of the tlaxkalli. I turned to Ichtacka.

"Could you tell me how the Magister came to wield the power of the Tlatoani, the King?"

Ichtacka pushed away his bowl, picked up his cup. "Since you left, we had no real King. Ilhicamina died childless, and nobody could claim the kingship. The wrath of Huitzilopochtli took King Ilhicamina and all the high priests, and we had to make do without." He took a sip of water. "It was hard. We the tlamacazqui deal with matters of the Gods, of faith. Now, we had to deal with the conduct of war. The growing of crops. The needs of the farmers. Quetzalcoatl never gave us that authority, for that lies with the King only. The people know it. We needed a King. We pleaded to the Gods, with a dozen sacrifices, all we could afford, to send us one who might take the mantle of Ilhicamina. And then, the Magister came from the heavens, and even I thought for a while that our prayers had been answered."

Xiuhtecuhtli looked out of the window. "It was a bright day in the month of Tecuilhuitontli, the Small Feast of the Lords. As the day drew to an end, there was a loud noise, as of thunder, but lasting longer. The light from the Portal of the Gods above us darkened, even though it was not yet evening. The Magister's dirigiable moved into the Portal. Lightning was all round it. Then the Magister descended on a platform and spoke in words not of this world."

Yaotel continued. "A little man named Tochtli came and told us what the Magister had said. He was the Messenger of Quetzalcoatl Himself, come to guide the City to its destiny." His lips were tight. "And for a short while, I could have wept for joy. We were saved."

"But it didn't last," Ichtacka put his arm on Yaotel's shoulder. "The Magister's dirigiable had all manner of foreign devices, and his pale-skinned servants put them in the temple to Huitzilopochtli. There was the sound of hammers! They were breaking the walls of the Temple!"

"And then," Xiuhtecuhtli said, "we were summoned into his presence. Him, and his female teacher of youths, and his general. He showed us many wondrous things. Lights that lit and went out without fire. Lightning. He told us that these devices were used to talk to the Gods. And we were no longer to..." His voice faltered.

"The Magister spoke," said Yaotel. "And that little rat Tochtli told us what the Magister had said. I hear his words again and again in my heart. He told us we were no longer to... sacrifice people, since the Magister could speak with the Gods directly through his magics."

Ichtacka gave me a grim smile. "We didn't trust him, and afterwards, we caught that little man, and put the fear of fire on him, and asked him what the Magister had truly said."

"Murder!" Yaotel's hands shook as he looked at them. "We were no longer to murder people!" He looked up at me, and I was shocked to see tears streaming down his face. "We sacrificed twelve people. Four men. Four women. Four children. They are missed even today. Our City is poorer for their leaving. Even now, I see their faces. Even now, I hear the last words on their lips before they departed. Give us a King! And then a King comes, and he calls it murder! Like a thief who strikes down a man for his possessions. Murder!"

Ichtacka looked at me. "Magister Nicholas Slate is not the King we prayed for, Alchemist. For all the times I have heard the Gods speak to me, for all the times I dismissed my own stupid desires, I was deceived. I failed to notice. And now, we must rid ourselves of this impostor."

"It won't be easy," Xiuhtecuhtli said. "The people believe that the Magister is a divine being come to lead us, and we cannot simply tell them he is not. But we must find a way. Will you help us?"

 
I looked at my fellow conspirators, Yaotel, Xiuhtecuhtli, Ichtacka.

"With all my strength, with all my knowledge, with all my will. I swear it."

 

---

 
We finished our special feast. Because of my state of mind Tonalnan's skills were wasted on me. I walked outside to see what was happening. The five-a-side Ullamaliztli game had finished because it was too dark to see the ball, but there was a new attraction. There was a circle of people and in the middle was my Shieldmaiden in hand-to-hand combat with her new warrior friend. They were both crouched down, taking slow careful steps around each other.

Tupoc sprang forward without a sound and threw a punch at Brenda, who blocked it and countered, but Tupoc had already retreated, and dodged Brenda's followup attack. He lightly skipped backwards, bouncing on his feet grinning at Brenda, crouched down with raised fists again.

Clearly, they had been at it for a while. Their skin was shining with sweat, their clothes stuck to their bodies. They were enjoying themselves, and didn't show any sign of stopping.

Brenda moved in with a low kick that developed into a throw when Tupoc dodged and threw a punch. He staggered back but stayed on his feet. Wasting no time he aimed a kick at Brenda's midsection and she ducked, reached out, and pulled his other leg from under him. He landed on his back. Holding on to his leg she punched him twice, but halted her fist half an inch from his face. She stepped back a few paces and Tupoc jumped to his feet.

They joined again, and Tupoc feinted, solidly kicked Brenda in the chest, following up with a hard push. Brenda took a few uncertain steps back, but managed to avoid falling on her bottom. With a scowl, she stepped forward again. Tupoc changed his stance from right foot to left foot forward and aimed a punch at Brenda's face. Brenda had been waiting for something like that, grabbed his arm, threw him over her hip, and rolled with him into an armbar, legs over his chest and neck, his arm firmly grasped in her hands. She tightened her grip and noticed me.

"Oh hello Captain. Had a good dinner then?"

"Excellent," I said. "I'll tell you all about it later." I pointed at Tupoc. "Are you about done?"

"Um." Brenda pretended to notice Tupoc. "Can you tell him that if he taps the floor, I'll let go?"

I translated. Tupoc, red-faced with bare teeth gave me a big grin and answered.

"He says he already knows, and he will in a few more minutes."

"Heh." Brenda pulled the armbar tighter. Tupoc tapped her leg, and they got to their feet.

Tupoc looked at me. "Alchemist, please tell your warrior that she hits like a girl."

I translated for Brenda, and she laughed. "I am a girl. What's your excuse?"

 
The evening was drawing to an end. Brenda raised her fist at Tupoc, and he bumped it. With a wave, he returned to the barracks and we walked to our own chambers. Brenda was chuckling to herself.

"What?"

"I went toe to toe with an honest-to-goodness Aztec warrior, and I kicked his ass!"

"Hm. I went toe to toe with three Aztec priests and..." I paused. I realised that Tupoc might very well have challenged Brenda to keep her out of the way of the City's priesthood and their murderous plans. Brenda would never forgive herself if I told her.

"I didn't get sacrificed," I finished. "It is as I expected. They hate the Magister as much as I do. We have allies."

"They are high nobility, ain't they? Good friends to have."

"They are powerful, but not all powerful. Still. I am now more optimistic than I was before. Time to turn in."

"I need a bath," said Brenda. "Be there in fifteen minutes."

 
I had just unfastened one of the straps on my leg, when there was a male voice at the door. I sighed, fastened it again and walked to the door. It was Brenda's large friend. He was armed with the traditional macuahuitl, but he didn't look like he was here to murder me.

"Cualli teotlac, Alchemist. Please forgive me for disturbing you."

"Good evening, Tupoc. How may I help you?"

"I am looking for Brenda. Is she here?"

I glared at him. "What, Cuauhocelotl Tupoc, are your intentions towards my daughter?"

"Daughter?!"

I laughed. "I am only joking. She should be back soon. You can wait here if you wish." I pointed him at a chair, and he sat down. "What do you need her for?"

"Are all the women in England like her?"

"Brenda is not English. She comes from the lands far away to the North." I shook my head. "I don't think there is anyone quite like her."

"There are no woman warriors in this city." Tupoc said. "Upon my word, I did not fight her intending to truly harm her."

"Thank you. I am sure neither did she."

"I have lived in this City all my life. I learnt to fight in the Telpochcalli from when I was a young boy. Everybody learns to fight. But the City is hidden. We do not go to war. There are no enemies to capture and send to the Gods." He ran his hand over the back of his head. "Our Captain decided that since there were no enemies, we would make war upon ourselves. We put feathers on our weapons, divided ourselves into two Xiqipilis, and fought each other. Thus, I was spared having to walk around with this stupid Piltonpli on my head."

"That is what we do as well," I said. "There have not been any large wars for years, but still we know we must be ready for when they do come."

"With no real enemies, how do I know?" Tupoc put his hands on his weapon, leaned his head upon them. "Brenda is the first one I fight who I haven't fought all my life. I think I could have captured her in a real war, but it would not be easy. And she is a woman. How do I know that the first real enemy I face will not simply swat me like a fly?"

"I don't know. But Miss Lee is not like anyone else."

 
The bead curtain was twitched aside and Brenda came in, hair wet from her bath. She saw Tupoc, sneered at him.

"You brought a weapon this time? Think that's gonna help you?"

Tupoc got up, spoke to her.

"He says he brought something for you," I said.

He held up his macuahuitl to her. "A gift for you. A warrior needs a proper weapon, not one of those sad little bits of metal."

Brenda reached out and carefully touched the obsidian edge. "Sharp," she said.

Tupoc offered it to her again.

"It's yours," I translated. "It's my old one. Come to me if you need to replace pieces of obsidian."

That was cunning. Give her a present, but make sure something is wrong with it so she'll come back to have him fix it. I didn't say that of course. I wouldn't want to stand in his way in any sense.

Brenda took the weapon out of his hands, turned it round, looked at it. Her eyes were shining. She knew that she was being seduced, and by the looks of it, it was working.

"Captain?" She kept looking at Tupoc. "What's thank you in Aztec?"

"Tla-soh-ka-ma-ti." I said, speaking slowly.

"Tlasohkamati, Tupoc," she said. "I'll think of you when I use it."

I translated. Tupoc grinned.

"When you stand next to me. Not opposite me."

He clasped her shoulder, turned round, walked out. Brenda raised her weapon, struck out with it. She grinned at me.

"Oh Sabine. I have a new toy. Want to come out and play?"

 

---

 
If the North American Marines teach you one thing, it's to be punctual. With Brenda around, there was no need to set an alarm. I watched her open her eyes at six o'clock exactly. I had my leg and my clothes on already. At my age, you don't need much sleep.

"Captain."

She stuck her legs out of bed, and got into her clothes in exactly the way every one of her Brothers would, taking exactly the same four minutes. She made her bed, and she was ready for the day. Tonalnan came and brought us both a bowl of oat meal gruel for our breakfast.

"Tlasohkamati, Tonalnan," I said, and Brenda and I sat down to eat.

"What's the plan today, Captain?"

"I still have to engineer some sort of way to produce masses of hydrogen gas. I'll also need a way to store the stuff."

"Balloons for all the kids," said Brenda.

"That wouldn't work," I said. "Do you remember how balloons go all wrinkly after hardly any time at all?"

Brenda cast her eyes to the Heavens. "That was a joke, Cap'n."

"To you maybe, not to me. You, Carl, and Alexandra have sealed up Lady I's envelopes but the hydrogen will leak through the skin. They'll be empty in a few months. The only thing that will hold hydrogen pressure for any amount of time is a thick steel tank. Things you might think of as air tight, still aren't hydrogen tight." I took a breath. "And there is no way that our Aztec friends can produce such a tank. I forged an axe, and that was frankly a metallurgical miracle."

"And Slate knows that as well as you do."

"Yes."

"He's guessing."

"Exactly. I do in fact have an adequate way of storing tons of hydrogen. The longer I continue to play with batteries and pots of water, the more certain he becomes that I have a use for lots of hydrogen."

"And you can't exactly say it's hopeless and stop, because otherwise how would we get the Lady to fly again?"

I nodded.

"Time's running out."

"It is."

 

---

 
It was early in the afternoon when Slate once more summoned us to his eyrie. I swear, he enjoys watching me struggle all the way up the stairs. Still, I'll be damned if I have people carry me. Brenda and I entered the temple. Already there were Slate, Sabine Moreau, Slate's lieutenant Heinz Ostwald, Ichtacka, Yaotel, and Xiuhtecuhtli. I stepped into the middle of the room. The stump of my leg hurt, but I didn't let on.

"Magister," I said.

"Ah Captain," said Slate. "So good of you to join us. It must not be easy for you. Still, I hope today's demonstration will be worth the effort."

"Demonstration?" I stood up straight just to show him.

Slate turned to the others. "It has come to my attention that there are those among you who doubt that I am truly speaking to the Gods." Slate looked back at me. "Would you be so good as to translate for our holy men?"

I repeated what Slate had said while he watched the priests' faces. They showed no expression at all on their faces and I made a note never to teach them Poker.

"For their benefit, I will now speak to a deity of their choice, and they may judge me by my answer."

If I were truly the Magister's ally and helper, I might have warned him of the error of his ways. I did no such thing of course, but translated truly and literally.

I had to marvel at Slate's sheer callousness. At that point, I doubted that even if I sincerely wanted Slate to become the Divine Ruler of Anctapolepl, I could have helped him even with my knowledge. If he were doing this in England, would he ask an archbishop whether to manifest the Father, the Son, or the Holy Ghost? Was he really this stupid?

Ichtacka looked at me, wondering if he'd misheard, then deciding he hadn't. He turned to Slate.

"Quetzalcoatl," he said. "The Feathered Serpent, wisest of the Gods. Speak to him if you can."

Slate gave a single nod. He sat down on the Throne, and put his hands on the copper orbs on the armrests. Behind him, Sabine pulled a lever, and with a loud crackling sound, lightening appeared in the metal structure above his head. Slate shut his eyes threw his head back, and uttered words in a language I could not understand. I looked at the priests. Ichtacka stood still as a statue, his face betraying nothing. Yaotel looked angry. Xiuhtecuhtli stared at the lightning playing above the Magister's head. He caught my eye. I shrugged.

After about a minute, Sabine pushed the lever back, and the son-et-lumière ceased. A few moments later, Slate opened his eyes.

 
"Igne Natura Renovatur Integra."

 
Now here was a phrase that Prof. Wadcroft would know. It means "By fire, Nature is renewed." It was adopted by early Alchemists to whom fire was one of the four elements. It serves as a reminder of how ignorant we once were. Also, the initials are I, N, R, and I, which should ring a bell or two in the right company. This alone should have served as a warning to me, but truly, what could I have done?

Slate stood up and turned to the priests.

"I have spoken to the God, and He has replied to me. Hear now the words He has spoken to me. One of you shall be granted the honour of conversing with Him. Mind to mind. To that man, the Truth will be revealed in such a way that he can be certain of it." Slate waited for me to translate, waved his arm. "Who of you shall it be?"

They turned to each other.

"I don't trust this," said Xiuhtecuhtli. "This is clearly some device to addle the mind and give you visions directly from the realm of King Mictlantecuhtli."

"I agree," said Yaotel. "We must refuse. We have our own ways of speaking with the Gods."

Ichtacka looked at the floor. "We cannot refuse. Doing so would be the same as to denounce him. Are we ready to do that?" He looked at me. "Alchemist? Is there a chance that he is speaking the truth?"

"You have my word that he is not. This chair is a toy. It will not grant anyone access to the Gods."

"What will happen to the man who sits in that chair?"

"It is tamed lightening, like I showed you before. It will give you tremors. The Magister sits in it himself. The orbs are important. If it becomes too much, let go of the orbs."

 
Ichtacka gave a nod. He stood up, stepped forward. Slate pointed his hand at the chair and Ichtacka sat down. He put his hands on the copper orbs as Slate had done.

"Commence," said Slate.

The look in Sabine Moreau's eyes as she threw the lever told me all I needed to know, but it was too late, too late. The lightening appeared above Ichtacka's head, and he screamed. I could see the muscles in his arms swell up, his body convulsed.

"Let go of the orbs!" I shouted. "Let go!"

Ichtacka didn't hear me. I turned round. "Brenda!"

Brenda leapt forward, took hold of Ichtacka's arm. Her body tightened and she gave a shout. In one massive heave, or convulsion, she pulled away Ichtacka's thin arm. The spell broken, Ichtacka slumped in the seat, and Brenda fell to the floor, her arms and legs shaking, her teeth bare. I knelt by her side as Yaotel and Xiuhtecuhtli leapt to Ichtacka's aid.

Brenda was uttering a long string of transatlantic swearwords. She rubbed her arms.

"I'm good. The old man!"

Yaotel and Xiuhtecuhtli had laid Ichtacka down on the floor. Yaotel listened at his lips. He looked up.

"He's alive! Let's get him to his chambers. Fetch Tonalnan."

Slate stepped forward. "This is what happens to those who attempt to speak to the Gods, and are found unworthy. Take him away."

I translated word for word, with pure malice in my heart. Xiuhtecuhtli half stood up as if to throw himself at Slate. The big Prussian Ostwald looked down on him, his blue eyes cold and dead, and reached for the handle of his pistol. I stood up, held Xiuhtecuhtli's shoulder, shook my head.

"Ichtacka first. Then, the Magister."

 
Yaotel, the most fleet afoot among us, ran down the stairs, and a few minutes later, two hefty warriors showed up with a stretcher. They carried Ichtacka to his chambers. Tonalnan was already waiting with her bag of medicinal herbs. It only took her one look. She sadly shook her head. Ichtacka was hurt beyond the help of any of us. She did the only thing she could, which was to set alight some herbs, and waft the smoke into Ichtacka's face. He gasped, opened his eyes. He tried to raise his arm and couldn't.

"I am going on my last journey," he took a few laboured breaths. "I can only ask the Gods to help you, but I shall. It is you who must rid the City of this abomination."

Yaotel took Ichtacka's hand between his. "It will be done, Tlamacazqui Totec Ichtacka."

"So we swear," Xiuhtecuhtli said.

Ichtacka smiled, turned his eyes to me. "Look after my people, Alchemist."

Before I could answer, the light left Ichtacka's eyes, and he stopped breathing. We looked at each other. Tonalnan quietly gathered up her medicines, found a blanket and put it over his face.

 

---

 
The funeral was held the next day. Being a high-ranking member of the priesthood, Ichtacka was to be cremated. Some of the women had been busy making little effigies of him that people could keep. His body was wrapped in linen, and placed upon the pyre. In the days before the Magister came, there would have been sacrifices, servants for the old priest in the afterlife. Their place was taken by more effigies, human figures made out of corn leaves. I was secretly glad. I looked at the faces of the people gathered at the very same field where I had ignited a barrel of gunpowder underneath the despicable priest Matlal. It took a long time for all the flames finally to die down, and then priests came to put the ashes into urns, to be buried underneath Ichtacka's home, and in other places, kept secret.

For the shortest moment, I thought I recognised a familiar beautiful face in the crowd, smiling at me, but in the blink of an eye it vanished as if I had never seen it. The evening rains came, and Brenda and I walked home together. I sat on my bed, unstrapped my leg, pulled on my pyjamas. I was ready to get into bed when I saw Brenda. She was sitting on her bed in her underwear, staring miles ahead of her. Using a chair as a crutch, I made my way over and sat down next to her. She didn't move.

"Damn it," she whispered.

I said nothing.

"Little bitch killed the old man. On my goddamn watch."

"There's nothing you could have done," I said.

Brenda turned her brown eyes to me. Before I could move or speak, she had pulled out her kukri, and flung it across the room where it stuck in a wooden cupboard, quivering.

"That's what I could have done. That's what I should have done. But I didn't. I'm damn useless."

I put my arm round her big strong shoulders and pulled her to me. She made an annoyed sound, but didn't push me away.

"It's not your fault," I said. "Brenda. It's not your fault. You did what you could, at great risk to yourself, and gave Tlamacazqui Ichtacka his last words. You should be proud."

Brenda scowled. "Change in the ROE, Captain. If you go anywhere near that goddamn chair again, I'm chopping Sabine to pieces as a precaution." She gave me a burning look. "I'm done playing nice."

I stared at Brenda's kukri sticking in the wall on the other side of the room.

 
"So am I," I said.

Margaret Enderby: Listen to the lightning

Meeting of the Sparks - Symposium of the Wizards - A new heart for the Tin Man - Mission to Khartoum - News from far away - An unexpected passenger

 

NO NOISE NO STEAM Rina Prescott reporting

 

It is not often that we get the chance to see the Beast of Algernon, the tracked vehicle that served our university so well on our expedition in North Africa, in action. Today, Mr. Andrew Parsons and our own Miss Carrie StJohn performed a test. Expertly driven by Miss. StJohn, the Beast made a circuit of the garden, under carefully measured conditions, and successfully returned to its lair deep underneath the main building. Well done Mr. Parsons, and well done Carrie!

 
Didn't the thing stop half way through? -- LD

It did, but they got it going again. -- RP

Did you talk to Carrie? -- LD

Tried to, but she'd found some new friends. -- RP

Eh? -- LD

The Sparks. I'm not going anywhere near them. -- RP

Why not? -- LD

They creep me out. And they were busy anyway. -- RP

 

---

 
Which subject is best? Well, obviously my subjects are. I teach Physics, concentrating on Newtonian laws of motion. Well understood, well supported, and as close as one can get to Truth in a universe that seems to be designed specially to baffle us humans. You can drop a weight off the University Tower, and allowing for some atmospheric variation, it will always, always land on the ground in exactly the same amount of time. That is good news for young Alexandra, who depends on these very laws to put a bullet exactly were she wants it to go.

Likewise, my second subject of Archaeology allows us to determine what happened in the past. The past is immutable. It has happened. Things that happen, stay happened. The only thing that ever changes about the past is our understanding of it. Maybe the jawbone you thought belonged to a Homo Habilis was instead used to nosh carrots by a Homo Erectus. But bones, dwellings, tools, the footprints of Humanity, stay put.

My third subject of Anthropology is delightfully weird and squishy. The study of humans. While you can predict in large strokes what most people will do, as soon as you try to write their behaviour down in a hard and fast law of Nature, they'll do something entirely different just to spite you. Part of my job is to sit here, with a little gnomic smile, and say I knew you were going to do that.

And then of course, there are more vague matters than even that. Our founder Charles Algernon Parsons drew a firm thick black line at any studies of the Paranormal and Supernatural, but speaking as an Anthropologist, there is nothing that seduces people more than a thick black line. How far can they cross it? Which is why we have Professor Brassica of Homoeopathy. I may not know about the memories of water, the concept of like curing like instead of making it worse. I may not know how to listen to the Music of the Spheres, or delve into the domains beyond length, width, height, and time. But I do know a lot about mind-broadening chemicals and their effect on an already wobbly mind, and I can draw my own conclusions.

 
Another hive of woolly thinking is the study of Electricity and Magnetism. If we are to believe the likes of Dr. Parker, we are wading in a soup of occult 'waves' passing through us without as much as a by-your-leave. The language is much the same as that of the Homoeopaths. At least the Electromancers are able to come up with reproducible results, and their doctrines have uses beyond making someone believe they feel better.

When I found out that Dr. Parker had got permission to organise a symposium, I added my name to the guest list without a second thought. Sparker's studies fall under Physics, so I had long wanted to take a look in his kitchen, to see if what happens there does not sully the name of my subject. It's considered rude for fellow Professors to ask silly questions or point and laugh from the back row, but guests in symposia are common. Now the word symposium may give you images of massive lecture halls filled to the brim, but Sparker's Symposium was a more, shall we say modest affair. He had invited all Electromancers from Dublin's Trinity College, which came to one prof and two students, and those from Edinburgh, where our own Messrs. Uda and Yagi were stationed. Add to that our own sparks, three boys, and we had a symposium of ten people, including myself.

 
I had finished my last lecture for the day. It is always hard to keep students' attention on a subject as dull as the culture of the Homo Neanderthalensis. One of my colleagues, a Prof. Auel, has a most effective solution to this, but those are depths I will not sink to. Yes, I do have a copy of her works. The bell was loud enough to wake up most of the students, and I released them back into the wild. I took a stroll into the campus common, when one of the University's carriages arrived. It stopped and produced a professor and two students wearing the Trinity dark blue blazer, grey trousers, and grey chequered skirt. They had that faraway look in their eyes of those who contemplate the World Beyond This World. Or the mildly sea-sick.

I wandered over and introduced myself to the professor, named Walton.

"You're here for the symposium, then?" I said.

"Indeed, Dr. Enderby. Are you a colleague of Dr. Parker?"

"Strictly speaking, yes," I said. Which was a little mean of me, so I added. "My speciality is slightly more... mechanical in nature than Dr. Parker's."

Walton looked amused. "We have been trying to capture a few of the Little People do do our work for us, but they're slippery buggers. We have to do our own sums and formulae."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"We're used to it. My secondary subject is Mathematics, and that's only because nobody would touch my equations." He chuckled. "We have a legitimate use for imaginary numbers."

His students, a tall lanky boy and a pleasantly chunky lass with long red plaits, were standing to attention. Walton gave them the once-over to check if they properly represented Trinity College, turned back to me.

"Could you direct us to the registry offices?"

 
I took Walton and his students to the Porters, and they were duly assigned rooms to sleep in, given a years-old map of the Campus that didn't include the High Energy Alchemy building, and then left to fend for themselves. I felt like a mother hen who has had some ducklings imprint on her, and since dinner time was coming up, they followed me in single file to the mess hall. I looked round, and in one of the gloomier parts of the hall spotted two of Parker's sparks. I marched over.

"Fernsby? Dankworth?"

Two pairs of eyes looked up at me suspiciously.

"Ma'am?"

I pointed. "These are the people from Trinity, here for Prof. Parker's do."

Dankworth stood up. "You're the Trinity lot?"

"Aye," said the boy. "I'm Murphy."

Dankworth looked from Murphy to the girl. "Is Reid here as well? Don't tell me he couldn't make it!"

The girl coughed, waved. "Hi!"

Dankworth gaped at her. "You're Reid?"

"Eileen Reid, pleased to meet ye."

"But... You're a girl!"

Reid rolled her eyes. "Ah bejayzes, what gave me away? It's the skirt isn't it?"

Dankworth looked at Reid as if she'd sprouted rabbit ears. "There's no girls in the Sparks! We're famous for it! No girls ever get anywhere near us!"

"Really? I wonder why," said Reid.

"That's not what I..."

"Shut up Dank," Fernsby turned to Reid, and to a lesser degree Murphy. "I'm Fernsby, he's Dankworth. Welcome to Algernon."

"Is Sallow in?" Murphy said. "What about Mr. Uda? Mr. Yagi?"

"Uda and Yagi are travelling. Should be in early tomorrow. Sallow is monitoring on the GBA."

"The George Bennett Array." Reid sounded hungry.

"Aye," Dankworth grinned at Reid. "It's an hour to dinner. Want to see it?"

"Is the Pope a Catholic?" She cast a pleading eye at Prof. Walton.

"Go!" Walton said. "Try not to break anything."

 
With the children out playing, I was left with Walton. We wandered over to the faculty break room, where I found Sparker in conversation with a man I didn't know.

"What ho Parker! Your guests have begun to arrive!"

Parker looked up, recognised Walton. "Michael! You're here! W-welcome!"

"Clifford," said Walton. "What a pleasure to finally put a face to the name." He turned to me. "We've never met in person before. All of our communications have been through letters or by Hermes device."

"Good afternoon," said Parker's companion.

Parker turned round. "Oh. I'm forgetting my manners. Let me introduce Second Mate Stewart from the Ipswich Maritime Institute. He's here for a lecture on Aldis lights and how t-to use them."

Second Mate Stewart gave us a nod. "Dr. Parker told me about an Aldis light that can transmit over the horizon. I had to come. We can find a use for such a thing."

"W-we haven't t-tried to p-put them on ships," Parker said. "That w-would be a good experiment."

"Hmm." Walton rubbed his chin. "Wouldn't it be a hazard having electrical equipment in a salt water environment?"

"Doctor," Stewart said. "Ships were designed to have the wet stuff outside. We can keep a cargo of grain dry. Your equipment wouldn't be in any danger."

"Of course," Walton said. "I apologise."

"An Aldis light by night can be seen some three miles away. A signal flare, one of the new Coston types, could be visible for thirty miles around. Imagine being able to send not just 'Help!' but detailed messages over such a distance."

"Oh we can signal over much greater distances," Walton said. "We could detect signals as far as..."

"Michael." Parker raised his hands. "We haven't p-p-proven that yet."

Walton opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind. "Of course. I was talking about theoretical distances."

First Mate Stewart looked from Parker to Walton and back. "What's a Hermes Device? Is that the name for one of your magical Aldis lights?"

"Um, yes." Parker looked away. "Named after the messenger god of Greek mythology."

"And you and Dr. Walton here were using it to exchange messages."

Parker said nothing.

"Between Ipswich and Dublin. A little under three hundred miles. Nautical miles of course."

Parker gave Walton a look, then nodded at Stewart.

"Gentlemen, with such a device, a merchant ship could be in constant contact with its owner up to the Gulf of Biscay!"

"Maybe," said Parker. "As I said, we don't know if it even w-w-w..." He took a breath. "On board a ship."

Stewart's eyes gleamed. "As it happens, we do have a ship or two at the Institute. I'm sure if I ask the Admiral..."

Parker heaved a deep sigh. "Mr. Stewart. W-we can't promise you anything. I w-would ask you to k-keep all this c-confidential if you would."

"Don't worry, Professor. I can keep a secret."

"Good."

Stewart looked at me.

"Oh I'm in the know already," I said. "This invention has deep archaeological and physical significance."

"Thank you P-professor Enderby." Parker turned to Stewart. "Do you know all you need?"

"Tomorrow, lecture at four, arrive by three, bring an Aldis lamp."

"Exactly. Now if you will excuse me, I must t-take Professor Walton to see my equipment."

"I shall see you tomorrow. Dr. Parker."

The electromancers disappeared in a puff of smoke, transporting themselves to the Wizard's tower. I was left with Stewart.

"Professor? Do you know what this... this device of theirs is capable of? Have you seen it in operation?"

"Not personally, but I have read some reports."

"Tell me. How far does this light shine?"

"I don't know. Maybe all the way to the Moon and back."

 

---

 
The next morning, I grounded myself with a nice solid lecture on thermodynamics. The relation between the mass, the volume, the temperature, and the pressure of a gas can be described with a simple set of formulae devised by a group of gentlemen named Robert Boyle, Joseph Louis Gay-Lussac, Lorenzo Romano Amedeo Carlo Avogadro, and Jacques Charles. They each picked two of their favourite properties of an ideal gas, while keeping the others constant in a scientific tug-of-war. To the delight of steam engineers, these laws have not needed changing in at least two hundred years. I finished my lecture, wiped the blackboard clean of formulae, graphs and pressure vessels, and made my way to room 2B, where Dr. Parker's symposium was to be held. As symposia go, it was a more intimate setting, with room 2B holding maybe two dozen students. I found a seat in the middle of the room, placed my feet firmly on the ground, my bum firmly in my seat, pulled out a notebook for the looks of it, and prepared to be mystified by Things Unseen.

 
Parker was at the front, helping Stewart set up his Aldis light. The Trinity students and Walton were sitting near the front with polite expressions on their faces. Dankworth, Sallow, and Fernsby came in carrying some heavy equipment between them, which they put into a corner of the room for later use. I turned at a noise to find Mr. Omar Khouri sitting next to me. He gave me a polite nod and a smile.

"Mr. Khouri. What brings you here?"

"Simple curiosity, Professor. I have heard of the estimable professor Parker and his accomplishments in long-range communications. It fascinates me."

"I have to admit it still sounds like utter codswallop to me, but there is no denying that his devices seem to work."

"Cods. Wallop." An amused gleam was in Mr. Khouri's eyes. "The English language is so expressive. Especially when informing the other of their intellectual shortcomings."

There was a knock on the door, and more students came in. I didn't know them, but from the look in their eyes I could tell they were with Prof. Brassica's lot. Drawn here by the enticing talk about vibrations that span the Earth and the deeper implications for the nature of Reality itself. I'm afraid I could not suppress a little smirk anticipating the questions they were likely to ask. Behind them sat Miss Linda Davenport of the Algernon Clarion, the student newspaper.

They were followed by Miss Felicia Sunderland and Andrew Parsons. Miss Felicia waved at me, and led Andrew to a place near the door. I knew she did this deliberately so that she could, if needed, take him outside without too much disturbance.

The next arrivals were our Nipponese exchange students, Mr. Uda and Mr. Yagi, with big smiles on their faces, carrying one of their fishbone-like antennae for sniffing out Hermes devices.

"Uda, you wanker!" Dankworth walked up to him. "What sort of time do you call this? We weren't even sure you were going to show up at all!"

"Konnichi-wa, Baka-san," said Uda with an Oriental bow. "I do apologise. Our train was severely delayed due to running into a leaf on the tracks. The Scottish engineers said they would need three days to repair the damage, but through great acts of ingenuity, they managed to do it in only three hours."

"There's only you and Yagi? Look, the Trinity lot is here already, and they brought a girl! Didn't anyone from Scotland want to come with you?"

Mr. Yagi sneered. "We did try to invite other students, but they said they did not want to work with Chinamen. We cannot blame them for that, because neither would we."

"Bunch of idiots," said Sallow. "Their loss. We've set up one of the low power Hermes in a secret location, and it's transmitting now. Do you want to demo sounding it out? It's on the Kirov frequency. Better if you do it because we already know where it is."

"It will be our honour," said Yagi. "Do you have the scanner?"

Fernsby pointed. "Over there. We set it up after the Admiral there does his part."

Reid and Murphy came up and introduced themselves. They were a disparate group, united by a single interest. The world is changing. Where once you would choose your companions based on which island you were born on, now you choose by the contents of your mind. Messrs. Uda and Yagi would have had to travel for years by ship and on foot before the invention of the airship. Maybe some day, countries will cease to matter at all.

 
High up in the Wizard's tower, the bell rang, and Sparker stood in front of the empty blackboard, shoulders straight, addressing the small crowd in a way I had never seen him do before.

"Good afternoon, and welcome to all you who have come here to learn of the secrets of Electricity, Magnetism, and their uses in speaking to people all over the world. Throughout History, many inventions have propelled Humanity forward to a brighter future. The invention of fire. The invention of the wheel. The invention of the ship. The invention of the steam engine. My friends, I believe that we are standing at the beginning of another such leap into the future, but it will not be an advancement of the body, but of the mind."

I could see several students of Brassica's open their notebooks and start scribbling furiously. This must be music to their ears. Sparker continued.

"I believe that this invention is only second to the invention of writing in its impact. Letters may take weeks to travel from sender to recipient, depending on their location on Earth. Our Hermes devices can send messages instantly, with no regard to where on Earth they may be. It is this instant connection of minds that will ensure a lasting peace on this Earth."

Next to me, Omar Khouri laughed quietly. "Academics. I find their limitless optimism so inspiring."

I looked at him, but I could not see a hint of sarcasm.

"Optimism?" I said.

"Is not this very technology being used in the cause of Evil as we speak?"

I looked at Sparker, and only now realised that he had completely lost his stammer.

"In that case, it's about time we caught up."

"Indeed it is."

 
Sparker finished his speech, and introduced First Mate Stewart. Stewart stepped up to the blackboard without a word. Instead, he reached out to the Aldis light and blinked out a message. He looked round the room.

"Did any of you understand what the message said?"

Nobody answered, though Mr. Khouri made a note in his notebook.

"Well then, allow me to repeat myself. I am First Mate Stewart of the Ipswich Maritime Institute, and I am here to tell you about the light standing next to me. This is a medium size Aldis light, designed by Mr. Arthur Cyril Webb Aldis. We use them for ship-to-ship communications over a useful distance up to the horizon, about thirty miles. When there is sufficient cloud cover, we can extend this range using the largest of our search lights, by lighting up the clouds. Aldis lights are also used on airships, to communicate with airport traffic control."

"I've seen Captain Tennant do that," I said, quietly.

"Then he must be speaking the truth," said Mr. Khouri.

Stewart continued. "You have seen me use a combination of long and short flashes of light. Dots and dashes. This method was first conceived by Vice Admiral Philip Howard Colomb, though his method was later improved by Mr. Samuel Morse." Stewart hung up a sheet of paper containing all the letters of the alphabet and their patterns of dots and dashes. "These are the codes. For instance." He stepped over to the light and signalled.

 
.- .-.. --. . .-. -. --- -.

 
"Can anyone guess what this message said?"

"Algernon."

Stewart slowly turned round to Andrew. "That is correct! Sir, if you could understand Morse code, why didn't you say so earlier?"

"You had not shown me the key."

Stewart blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"You did not show the key until after the first message. I did not know the code."

"And now you suddenly do?"

"It is on the paper on the blackboard."

Stewart fell silent for a long moment. "Is this some kind of joke?!"

"No Sir." Felicia radiated maternal pride. "He does that. Just carry on."

Stewart took a deep breath and turned back to the class. "For us mere mortals, please do not memorise the dots and dashes. If you have to translate the patterns of light or sound to dots and dashes, and from there to a letter, you lose valuable time. Learn to translate the rhythms directly into letters. We use the method of Ludwig Koch, where you start listening to messages containing only two letters at full speed, until you can copy them nine times out of ten. Then, you add one more letter and repeat, until you can copy all the letters. We find that is the easiest way." He looked at Andrew. "For normal people."

Stewart spent the next ten minutes signalling out messages containing only the N, the T, and the I for us to copy. Only Andrew and Mr. Khouri managed to copy the whole stream of flashes with no mistakes. I'm sure Alexandra, Carl, or Philip with their aviator's papers would have managed as well. I wondered where they were now, and how they were doing, and lost track of the flashes. I gave up and put down my pen.

"And that concludes this presentation. For those of you who wish to learn the art of signalling, I have been authorised by the Admiral to offer a few more guest lectures by our own signalman Mr. Phillips. If you are interested, please put your name on the list by the door." Stewart turned off the Aldis lamp. "Are there any questions? No? Thank you very much."

 
Stewart stepped down, and Sparker returned, picked up a long white pointer. Behind him, Dankworth and Sallow exploded into action, carrying the equipment to the centre of the stage.

"As you know, we of the Electricity and Magnetism department have been studying a method for transmitting messages by means of electricity, over vast distances, instantly. Using the directional antennae invented by Mr. Shintaro Uda and Mr. Hidetsugu Yagi of Tohoko University in Nippon, who we are honoured to have as our exchange students, we are able to detect the direction from which a device is transmitting." He pointed at a map of the British Isles. "We used to have only two listening posts, one here in Ipswich, and another in Dublin, at Trinity College. Trinity College being roughly East of us, we could easily triangulate and determine the position of any station either to our North, or to our South. But for stations to our East or West, the difference in angles becomes too small for an accurate calculation. For this reason, we built another listening station to the North at the University of Edinburgh, manned by Mr. Uda and Mr. Yagi, under Professor McCoy of Applied Physics, who..." Parker looked at Mr. Uda, who shook his head. "Has chosen not t-to join us at this t-t-time." Parker stabbed at the map with his pointer. "With three stations, we are able to triangulate the position of any station with satisfactory accuracy."

"Those poor boys," I said.

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Khouri said.

"You do not let students travel here all the way from the Frozen North unaccompanied. Poor form, Professor McCoy. Poor form."

"That seems a little careless," said Mr. Khouri.

"It is time for a demonstration!" Sparker walked to the blackboard and hung up a large sheet of paper. "This is a map of our University grounds, courtesy of the Civil Engineers."

Our Civil Engineers, among their many other pursuits, spend large portions of their lives crawling all over the University grounds with theodolites, measuring the location, height, and size of the buildings, hills, trees, and on one occasion a Philosophy professor named Clifton who stood by one of the walls contemplating a rebuttal to the Transcendental Argument for the existence of God, or some such piece of pretentious theoretical bullshit, and would not move. Professor Clifton is one-hundred and eighty centimetres tall, if you must know. As a result, there are maps of our University more detailed than any sane person could ask for. Sparker had borrowed one, and drawn circles and lines all over it in red. Some Civil Engineering student would not be pleased. While this was going on, the boys dragged a big trunk to centre stage.

"We have hidden a transmitter somewhere on the University grounds, and we will now attempt to find it." He stabbed at the map. "We are here. This is the bell tower with our measuring equipment, and we have measured the transmissions in this direction. To find the exact location of the transmitter, Mr. Sallow... no, Mr. Uda will now take a second bearing. The device can be found at the intersection of the two lines. Mr. Uda, please?"

Mr. Uda walked up to the stage, and picked up the magic wand. Slowly, he turned the device round over our heads. Several people ducked. He stopped, turned back a little, called out the heading on the compass. As Parker made a note on the blackboard, Mr. Uda frowned. He reached for the machine and made some adjustments. He turned the wand round again.

"Dank-san? I am picking up a signal from the South."

"South? We didn't put anything in the South." Dankworth walked up to the Device. "Bloody hell! This thing is blowing our poxy little test transmitter all the way to next Wednesday!"

"Has the Kirov Hermes device been re-activated?" Uda turned to Sparker. "The azimuth is one hundred and eighty two, Sir."

Stewart coughed. "Um. Boys? Even if Kirov is hundreds of miles away from the nearest body of water, I can still tell you, it's not to our South."

Dankworth sneered. "No, it only uses the frequency of the Kirov apparatus. We were using that because someone torched the Kirov device."

One of Brassica's flower girls piped up. "This device can change the frequency of the world?!"

"Uh. No." Dankworth frowned. "What do you mean, the frequency of the world?"

"The higher dimensional vibrations of the Merkabah, resonating with the Third Chakra."

"Uh... No. Sorry. Another type of frequency."

Uda turned the magic wand back to where it was before. "Parker-Sensei? The other signal has stopped. Azimuth now two-hundred and eighty degrees."

"Echh!" Reid sneered. "I wish we had someone up in my tower. I'd have had them."

"One of these days, Reid," said Dankworth. "You have to tell me how you find those stations so fast."

Reid raised her hands. "I turn the antenna till the Eye is smallest?"

"Yeah, so do we, but if I crank any faster, the mechanism will break."

"I don't have a mechanism. I'm up in the tower with the antennas. Four fixed ones to know it's there, one rotary one for precision."

Sallow grinned. "You're up in the tower? Do you let your hair down to get out?"

Reid looked at Sallow strangely. "Wot?"

"Like Rapunzel. You're a princess in your tower."

"Ah bejayzes..." Reid buried her face in her hands. "Murphy? Hit him."

Murphy chuckled. "Only for half of your Kingdom and your hand in marriage."

"I bloody hate all of you."

Sparker coughed loudly. "Two hundred and eighty, thank you Mr. Uda." He walked over to the map and drew a line. It intersected with the other line exactly at the old disused chapel. Fernsby confirmed that was indeed the place where it was. And then, it was time for tea.

 
Sparker had arranged for tea and biscuits in the hall outside 2B. Surely, no expense had been spared. We took a fifteen minute break, and walked back inside where Walton had taken the stand. He talked about how the potency of a transmitter like the Hermes device grows with the wave length used, because these mystical waves are able to diffract around mountains and other obstacles along their way like ripples on a pond around an island. Some of these waves are over a thousand metres long, which is impressive, but doesn't explain what it is that is doing the waving. I know of these things. A longer string on a piano will give a lower tone. Lower tones have a lower frequency, but there aren't any mile-long pianos as far as I know. What, in short, were these people on about?

First mate Stewart raised a hand. "If it is permitted to ask now? How far are these 'waves' of yours able to go?"

Walton gave Sparker a look. Sparker shrugged. Walton turned back to the classroom. "Theoretically, we could detect a long range transmitter on the next continent, ten thousand miles away."

Next to me, Mr. Khouri dropped his pencil. He quickly picked it up and wrote something in his notebook, underlining it twice. Without my reference book, I could only catch the words Iinahum Yarwnana before he saw me looking and closed the notebook. They see us. They see us?

"You alright Mr. Khouri?"

"Yes, yes. This is most impressive." He gave me a look. "Should they be divulging this, though?"

"Yes. This is a place of learning." I looked round the room. The plastered brick walls hung with maps, images of prehistoric animals, a table of all the alchemical elements known to humanity, its cupboards, bookcases. I turned back to Mr. Khouri. "This is a place dedicated to knowledge. We know things. That is what we do. For everyone to know more." I smiled at him innocently. "You'd be surprised, the things we know."

"Knowledge is power."

"It is."

 
The symposium was drawing to an end. Tomorrow, there would be groups of people working together, exchanging notes, forging bonds between like minded individuals. To close the event, Sparker took the stand. He closed his eyes for a moment, gathered himself up.

"My friends." Parker hesitated. He looked at the note in his hand, changed his mind, put it in his pocket. "Today you have seen demonstrations of the application of the Electrical sciences to communication between people of all places on this world. As with all progress, we did not accomplish this on our own. Science can be compared to a relay race. The torch is passed from one researcher, one thinker, one scientist, to the next. Among others, Heinrich Hertz, James Maxwell, Michael Faraday. These people are the ones who worked tirelessly in the face of disdain and ridicule, like we were witch doctors! Without their work, we could not have done what we have today."

He took off his glasses, spent a moment polishing them, put them back on. "It is not only from our friends and colleagues that we learn things. The first working Hermes device was built by people who do not mean us well. The evildoers who attacked our school last year belonged to the same organisation. I travelled to Paris, and found there the final pieces to the puzzle. I am here to remind you that it is not only through the efforts of scientists that we make progress. There are those who keep us warm, fed, and above all else, safe."

Dr. Parker's face was solemn, quiet, like a dam holding back a sea of anger. "George Bennett was one of those men. He was stationed in Paris, guarding the Hermes device. In the short time I knew him, he became not only my protector, but also my friend. If it weren't for the ultimate sacrifice of George Bennett, I would not be standing here today. It is in his honour that I named our listening post the George Bennett Array. Though George Bennett has passed, his name lives on, as does his vigilance. No matter where our enemies may hide, we will find them!"

 

---

 
I once led a group of a dozen Maths undergraduates from the Indies around our University, and since I can't speak Hindi, and they spoke little English, much hand waving and pointing was involved. I managed to guide them through their week in faraway Ipswich with no casualties. This did not go unnoticed, so now I have a reputation as the matron of lost souls. Where is room 2B? When will the exam results be announced and where? Why won't this girl even talk to me when I am only trying to be nice? Does everybody get homesick? Ask Professor Enderby, she will know.

The Trinity lot were staying here for a week, and they were not allowed to spend all that time in the Wizard's Tower. Naturally, they flocked around me for the practical things. Which is fine. It's not like I have students to teach, research to do, papers to correct. Herding two students and an Irish Prof keeps me from getting bored. I was just about to pick up Reid and Murphy for a lecture on Optics as applied to telescopes and microscopes. It wasn't hard to guess where they would be, so I made my way to Sparker's lair. On the way I bumped into Felicia and Andrew.

"Hello Margaret." Felicia pointed at Andrew. "Are you up for a demonstration? The Beast is going for a run."

"Sorry, can't. I have a Physics lecture. I'm rounding up a few of the Sparks."

"Well get them to come and see! Andrew has finished his... what is it called again, Andrew?"

"We have finished the installation of the Electromagnetic Turbines Mark One in the Tracked Vehicle Mark One. We will be conducting measurements to deduce the values of variables as yet unknown."

"There you go." Felicia beamed. "It's also a big moment for Miss StJohn. She will be driving the Beast." She looked at her watch. "Demonstration starts in twenty minutes."

 
I hadn't seen the Beast since we came back from Africa, so I made my way to the Tower and collected all the Sparks who knew something Electrical when they saw it, went into my class and collected my own students, who were perfectly happy to watch anything other than a bunch of formulae on refraction indices, and walked into the courtyard trailing a string of students without even a flute. We weren't the first to arrive, as most girls and boys of the Rifle Club were already there.

I poked Miss Florence Albrecht. "What are you lot doing here? Developed a sudden interest in magic motors?"

"Naah. We're here to cheer Carrie on. She's driving."

Miss Rina Prescott flipped open her notebook. "Doors are opening."

Andrew stood in the doorway with his back to us. Deep within, there was a rumbling noise and a dark metal Thing moved within, advancing as Andrew walked backwards. Up top, the periscope moved from left to right as Miss StJohn inside turned her head to look where she was going. As soon as the Beast's metal treads left the stone floor of its lair, there was an unworldly silence, broken only by a high-pitched whining noise coming from within. A massive lump of metal moved slowly forward. Without the noise of steam. Without belching smoke. And above all, quietly. Andrew held up his hands and all noise and movement ceased. The hatch opened and Miss StJohn's head popped out.

"It's working!"

Andrew didn't even nod. Of course it was working. He walked into the shop and came out with one of those measuring wheels used by surveyors and two orange flags on thin sticks. He put one flag a few yards in front of the Beast, measured out exactly one hundred metres, planted the flag, pulled out a stop watch, and waved at Miss StJohn. She disappeared inside. Faint noises came from the Beast, and it set itself in motion. It ran over the first flag and trundled on towards the second flag in almost complete silence. The second flag fell. Andrew didn't bother to write it down. He would remember. The Beast turned on the spot, one of the treads running forward, the other backward. Andrew picked up the fallen flag, put it back up, and came walking towards us with his surveyor's wheel. He put the other flag back up and gave Miss StJohn a wave. Once more, the Beast started to move. About half way down the courtyard, it slowed down, to come to a stop about thirty yards away from the second flag. The hatch opened and Miss StJohn came up.

"Something is wrong. I've lost power. The lights have gone out."

"The batteries are depleted," said Andrew. "They must be recharged."

Andrew rolled his surveyor's wheel to the Beast, looked at the meter.

"The Tracked Vehicle Mark One has travelled one hundred and seventy four metres on a fully charged Planté cell. Plus the distance from the garage."

Miss StJohn looked at the Beast, somewhat dismayed. "That won't get us very far. Do you mean to say that we've been working all this time only to have it fail?"

"We have not failed," said Andrew. "Results are within expectations."

Miss StJohn scowled. "I was expecting something more than a trip to the gardens and back. Not even back all the way!"

"You were mistaken," said Andrew. "We will move the Tracked Vehicle back into its garage. I will request materials for a larger battery from the Chancellor."

"How?"

"I will request a team of horses from the stables. They can move the Vehicle back into its garage."

And without another word, Andrew turned round and walked away into the building. Miss StJohn sat down on the ground, her back to the machine that until a moment ago had been her most proud achievement. She pulled off her hat and her long dark hair fell over her face, hiding it. I sat down next to her with many a creak in my joints.

"Miss StJohn?"

No answer.

"Carrie?"

She said nothing, and I nudged her with an elbow.

"Congratulations."

An incredulous look was on her face. "What?"

"Your experiment was a success."

"A success? It broke down!"

"No it didn't. It's out of fuel. It worked perfectly. All your welds held. All your pipes were connected properly."

"Wires."

"Yes. You can be proud."

"I've achieved nothing." Her voice sounded dull. "It needs too much electricity for a Planté cell."

"Andrew is requesting the materials for a bigger cell."

"There isn't a big enough cell in the world! The vehicle would need a train of cells a mile long, and then maybe it could travel for two miles. We've put all this work into the machine and we've only made it worse. This thing is useless."

"Carrie." She looked up at me. "This may come as a surprise to you, but we are scientists. We produce ideas. We produce knowledge. We don't usually make useful things. That's an engineer's work. Tell me. What have you learnt working on this thing?"

Miss StJohn thought a moment. "Welding. Electric wiring. Measuring. Design."

"There. You are right that the Beast as it stands now will never go anywhere. But maybe someone will find a use for that engine in it. Maybe the way in which you control it will be used where you never expected it to go. Someone will find a use for the things you have thought up. Nothing is lost."

"I wanted to ride it. It only worked for a few minutes, but..."

"Hey. StJohn." Dankworth stood in front of us. "Ran out of juice then?"

Miss StJohn sighed. "Yeah."

"That's what I thought. Did I hear right that Parsons is going to get a couple of horsies?"

She nodded. Dankworth pointed over his shoulder where Sallow and Fernsby stood by a cart bearing large urns.

"That's bloody embarrassing. Not going to happen," said Dankworth. "Not when the Sparks can do something about it. These are the spare batteries from the GBA. Want to hook them up? It should get you back into the garage."

Miss StJohn opened her mouth to say something, but broke out in a smile instead. She held up her hand, Dankworth took it and pulled her to her feet. I held my hand up as well, and Fernsby won second prize. They all disappeared inside, and maybe ten minutes later Miss StJohn looked out of the top hatch.

"Everybody, out of the way!"

 
And so ended the first and last ride of the Electrical Tracked Vehicle. Andrew applied for two thousand litres of sulphuric acid and half a ton of lead, but sadly, Malcolm Munroe denied the request. Andrew and Miss StJohn later put the steam turbines back into the Beast and used the electrical engine for another project. Miss StJohn volunteered for a few monitoring shifts on the George Bennett Array, decided she liked it, dropped her Biology, and signed up for Parker's classes instead. Good. We need more girls in Physics.

 

---

 
It was a few days after the Electrical Beast Experiment. The Trinity lot had gone home, and Parker would be accompanying Mr. Uda and Mr. Yagi back to Edinburgh for some gentle yet forceful words on their treatment there. There was a knock on my door and I opened it on Mr. Omar Khouri. He would be setting off for Khartoum on the evening airship to Cairo, and then on to Khartoum by train.

"Omar," I said. "Come on in. I was about to make some tea, would you like some?"

"Yes please, if I don't inconvenience you."

I put the kettle on and we sat down.

"I would like to thank you, Professor Enderby. You and Professor Wadcroft have been most helpful in piecing together the events leading to Najilah's death, Allah yarhemha. I only wish I could have spoken with Miss Alexandra Tennant."

"Their airship was lost in Mesoamerica. We don't know if they are still alive."

"That is only in the hands of Allah, but if I know anything, I think we have not heard the last of the Tennant family."

"Deo volente," I said. "Do you have all the information you need?"

"I believe I can convince Mr. Bouzid Moghadam that it was Sabine Moreau's gun, and ultimately her will, that killed her."

"The objective truth," I said. "But maybe not the absolute truth."

Omar laughed sadly. "In her final moments, Najilah repented of her wild adventures and Sabine killed her for it. That is what I will tell Ahmad. As for Bouzid..." Omar thought a moment. "I think I will tell him the full truth. Unlike Ahmad, he is aware of the darker places in Najilah's character. He would not believe anything I could make up." He put down his teacup and stood up. "Is there anything you wish to tell me before I leave?"

I took him to the door. "Give our condolences to Ahmad and his father."

"I will do that. Fare well until Inshallah, we meet again."

 
I opened the door to let Omar out, and found Parker out there about to knock. My goodness, I haven't been this popular with the men since my own university days.

"What ho, Parker! What can I do you for?"

"Can I t-talk to you?" Parker looked at Omar, who gave him a friendly smile. "In p-p-private?"

"I will be on my way. Goodbye Professor." He nodded at Parker. "Professor."

Omar walked down the hallway. I took Parker inside, and scarlet woman that I am, I offered him tea as well. Old age robs you of all semblance of morals.

"What do you have Parker?"

"This came in from Dublin." He put a note on my desk, turned it to me.

 

INTERCEPTED MORSE MESSAGE AZ 253. TIME 0428 PARTIAL MESSAGE READS NCONTRE CARL FATIN BEBE TENNANT, AUSSI PRESENT PHILIP ET ALEXANDER TENNANT BRENDA LI. TOUS VIF. ONT AID PNAL ENTRER CITE. LADY I EN PANNE NON CAPABLE DE VOL. MESSAGE ENDS. IS THIS FRENCH? RAPUNZEL.

 
I took a breath. "They're alive!"

"Yes."

"Thank God!" I looked at the message again. "The Tennants are crawling all over the City of Hooptyfloop. I hope they're being careful. Oh what am I saying? Lady I is, um, not capable of... theft? No, flight. So they're stuck there. Bloody hell." I looked up at Parker. "Rapunzel?"

"Miss Eileen Reid. They call her that because her listening p-post is in the t-top of the t-tower. And she has long hair."

"She managed to catch all that? She is good!"

"She is the Empress of b-biscuits."

"Thank you for this, Parker. Have you told Wadcroft?"

"Not yet."

"Let's go."

We made our way to Wadcroft's chambers and banged on his door. He wasn't in, or hiding under his desk. I pulled out my class schedule, and found he was giving a lecture on Interesting Rocks in auditorium one. We walked over there, sneaked into the back seats, and spent fifteen minutes listening to Alan holding forth about ignivomous crystals or something. He finished his lecture and we marched up to him.

"Wadcroft!"

Alan calmly gathered up his notes, put them in a folder. "Hello Margaret. Parker. Good to see you are finally taking an interest in things coming out of volcanoes. Is there anything you need to have explained?"

"They're alive!"

"They are? Splendid!" Wadcroft took off his glasses and put them in their case. "Margaret, would you mind terribly explaining what you are on about?"

"The Tennants, you oaf! We've had news of them!"

"What? Have they returned?"

"No. Lady I is broken down, and they can't fly. They're sneaking round Anctapolepl."

"Good Lord! How do you know this?"

I grinned at Wadcroft. "Well, we are living in the New World, don't you know?"

"Miss Reid intercepted a message," said Parker.

"Biscuit for her," said Alan. "Shall we inform Malcolm?"

 
Chancellor Malcolm Munroe has his office near the entrance gates, and we made for it. As we walked into the courtyard, a carriage came rolling through the gates. It stopped and out came Dr. Godfrey Pike, Miss Jocelyn Vale wearing a rather fetching blue striped dress and dark stockings instead of her school uniform, and Agent Wainwright of the Secret Service. I had missed Jocelyn in my Physics class, but she had a note from Pike. I waved at them.

"Oi you lot. Follow me. We've got news!"

"So do we," said Pike.

We all bundled into Clarice's office, and she stuck her head in Malcolm's office to see if he was entertaining. He wasn't, and we were all let in even without an appointment. The End Days are here, I tell you. Malcolm's office has a beautiful hardwood table for board meetings, and we all sat down and compared notes.

Jocelyn shuffled uncomfortably on her chair, half raised her finger before remembering that she was here in her capacity of International Woman of Mystery.

"Um," she said. "Can I tell the Club about this? We've all been trying not to think about Miss Tennant and her family. I know, operational secrecy and all that, but it doesn't feel right that I am the only one who knows they are still alive."

Pike looked at her for a few moments. "Tell them that Captain Tennant wrote to me, and that we know they are alive. But not a word more than that. If they insist, tell them I told you nothing more. Understood?"

Jocelyn nodded. "Understood. Thank you."

Pike pulled out a stack of photographs of documents. "This information was collected from Arkham. We know that Boreas initially had no hostile intentions towards Lady I, but nevertheless a firefight broke out. Boreas was destroyed. Lady I was disabled. If we may believe Master Nazeem, there was an... Influence on board Boreas, which drove them to attack. I have no idea how reliable that information is."

"That's usually the case where Master Nazeem is involved." I looked at one of the photographs. "Is that the muster roll?"

"It is. The one interesting name on it is blacked out with ink. All we know is that person's name starts with an O, because it's between Oldfield and O'Rourke."

"Or an R." I picked up the photograph. "O'Rourke sometimes gets sorted under Rourke rather than O."

Pike blinked. "O or R, then. If we assume that a vowel follows the R, it could be Ra, Re, or Ri."

Alan put his hand on the table, and we looked at each other.

"Riley!" we said, both at the same time.

Carl Tennant: Free the prisoners

A larger family - A snipe hunt - Go to jail do not pass "Go" - Interpretations - Treacherous traitors - The fate of Boreas - One prisoner to another

 

NO MORSE, NO LESS Linda Davenport reporting

 

The Ipswich Maritime Institute have been kind enough to lend us one of their teachers, Able Seaman Norbert Phillips. In person, Norbert looks very able indeed, tall, dark-bearded, the very image of the old tar of the right kind. One of his many abilities as a seaman is to send and receive messages in Morse Code, using an Aldis light. The Clarion can report that at the time of issue, there are still some spaces left in Norbert's elective class on Morse code signalling. This reporter, for one, will be paying all due attention.

 
"Norbert?" -- RP

Yes, that is his name. -- LD

"Very Able Indeed." Miss Davenport, I question your motives. -- RP

I resemble your asparagus. I'll have you know that ship-to-ship communications are a fascinating subject. -- LD

So we are not drooling over the tall dark handsome sailor? -- RP

You are most certainly not. I saw him first. -- LD

 

---

 
It was my turn that morning to visit Alex and bring her food. Fatin was packing Alex' rations in a bag. She put in the fresh meat, then took it out again and put in the flat bread first. She noticed me watching her.

"She has to eat the meat first, before it goes bad."

"It's good of you to think of that, my love. My sister never would."

"Hmph." Fatin closed the bag and gave it to me. "Go. If Alex goes hungry, she will shoot people for food. And it will be all your fault."

I slung the bag over my shoulder and kissed her. "I love you."

She gave me that smile. "When you come back, I will tell all the other men to go away."

"Into the rain?"

"Not my problem."

Marcel, who had been bouncing Raage on his knee with much giggling, now stood up and handed him back to Fatin. Together, we trotted into the tunnel. We came to the other end and I carefully stuck my head out. There was some sort of commotion. Lots of people walking about, and some of them were building some kind of structure out of wood. I dropped back down.

"Too many people. What are they doing?"

Marcel looked. "I don't know, but they aren't looking towards us. Let's go."

We climbed out of the tunnel and hid behind a rock. People were moving back and forth between the wooden structure and the Temple, carrying goodness only knows what. They were crossing the exact path that we used to visit Alex. There was no way we could get past without being seen.

"Are they going to go away any time soon?" Marcel said. "Do we wait?"

"I don't believe so." I looked round and pointed. "Over there are old houses. There has to be a corridor between them. I don't think anyone lives there anymore. think we can get to that?"

"Not a problem."

Marcel set himself in motion and I followed. He moved with a deceptive slowness that I hadn't seen since I had been on a hunt with Odawaa and Geedi of the Ajuru. I had tried to move like they did, but they had been stalking prey all their lives. I had not. I followed Marcel as best I could, and we reached the abandoned houses without being seen. Marcel raised his hands and grinned widely.

"Facile, non?"

"As you say." I looked back at the proceedings below. "What are they doing?"

People came and covered the wooden structure with brightly painted straw mats. The image painted on it was a human skull inside a semi-circle.

"It's a... a funeral pyre. A bûcher funéraire."

"Oh. Who's dead?"

"Someone important. Lower-class people get buried."

"The Magister?"

"Too much to hope for. Maybe Alex will know."

"Allons la trouver."

 
We found ourselves in a hallway, perfectly smooth, perfectly square, slowly curving round the wall of the volcano. To the left and the right there were rooms, where in olden days people had lived, hiding away from the Conquistadores, biding their time until they could once more rise and reclaim their lands. So far, that hadn't happened and the population had dwindled until now only half, maybe a third of the dwellings was inhabited. Nobody had told these people that there were no more Conquistadores, that they had been absorbed into the general population like the Vikings into the English. Nobody had told these people that it was now safe to come out, and that the fight was over and forgotten.

Marcel's hand was on my shoulder and I stopped. He put his finger on his lips.

"That smell." He raised his fists. "I know that smell."

I tried to smell it, but it was elusive, hovering at the edge of perception.

"I know that feeling," he said. "We are in a bad place. A place of suffering. A place of fear, where men piss themselves and no longer care that they do. There is a prison ahead."

He walked forward, without making a noise, and soon I too could smell it. I drew my parang. We came to two doors with light shining out of them, on opposite sides of the hallway. Noises came from the one on our left, and Marcel looked inside. Before I could say or do anything, he stepped inside and grabbed a man who was sitting at the table, arm round his neck. There was a crack, and Marcel dropped the body to the floor. It hadn't taken more than three seconds.

Behind me, a heavy door slammed, and a dark figure came running at us, screaming and brandishing a macuahuitl. He swung the wooden weapon at me, but I leapt back, narrowly missing the vicious sharp pieces of obsidian. Before he could strike again, I leapt out, struck out with my parang. I caught him on the arm and he dropped his weapon. Blood sprayed and he fell to the floor. I stepped forward, over him, towards the room on the other side of the hallway. There was nobody there.

"Clear," As I called over my shoulder, Marcel drove his palm full force into the face of my enemy. He stopped screaming abruptly.

"Open the cells," Marcel said.

I walked into the other room, lifted the latch, and opened the door to the first cell. It was empty. The stench of ordure indicated that it was only recently empty. I reached out to open the other door when Marcel called.

"Found someone! Please help me get him out, he can't walk."

I turned round, but as I did, someone banged on the door inside the cell.

"Let me out!"

With a shock, I realised I knew that voice. I looked through the slot in the door.

"Tennant?"

"Riley? How did you get here?"

"Took a wrong turn looking for the crapper. Open the goddamn door, will you?"

I lifted the latch, pulled it open. Riley limped out, leaning heavily on his cane.

"Much obliged. Now will you tell me how you came here?"

"We flew in," I said.

"Carl!" Marcel called from the other room. "Dépêche-toi! He is severely hurt."

I hurried towards the other cell, to find Marcel bent over the thin emaciated figure of an Aztec man. There were festering cuts on his arms, one eye was solidly closed, and one of his arms hung limp.

"Pick up his legs," Marcel said. "Carefully."

The man groaned weakly as we lifted him up and put him on the table. I picked up my bag and pulled out my first aid kit. I cleaned his wounds as best I could, wrapped a bandage round his arms that didn't do much more than keep the wounds out of sight. Riley came walking in.

"He's dead," he said. "They messed him up pretty bad."

"Thank you Doctor," I said. "What gives you that impression?"

Riley scowled. "I was in the next cell. I heard them do it, you idiot."

I looked back at the man. "Who did this to you?"

He said nothing. I repeated the question in French, then in German. Strangled words came out: "Ahmo nitlacaqui. Ahmo nicmati."

"That's what he kept screaming," said Riley. "I guess it means 'I don't know' or something."

I looked him over once or twice. "What do we do with him?"

Riley pointed at Marcel. "Same thing your pal did with the guards."

"Quois?" said Marcel.

"What do we do with him?" I said, in French this time.

"Take him to my brothers," said Marcel. "They will see to his needs. Whatever they may be."

Riley made a gruff noise. "We need to get our asses out of here. Guard changes at sundown."

I pointed at the man. "He can't walk. We need to carry him."

From the shirts of several people who didn't need them anymore, and two long wooden poles, we fashioned a stretcher for the poor man. We dragged the bodies of the guards into one of the cells, and set off back to the cenote. It was hard going, especially since we needed to stay hidden. Far below us, the funeral preparations were still going on and nobody was interested in a few shadows passing by. We were nearly back at the tunnel entrance, when we needed to carry the prisoner down a steep slope. Being the tallest, I went first, hands raised. Marcel held the other end, and Riley came last. I had to move carefully, walking backwards, looking over my shoulder. There was a sharp noise, and the next moment, the stretcher was wrenched from my hands as Marcel came falling down. He slid down the slope, and fell on his face down below, moving feebly but unable to get up. Blood trickled down his head, falling onto the sandstone.

I looked up. Some ten feet above me, Riley stood with his cane in his hand. He leapt down towards me with a nasty look in his eyes. I retreated to where the ground was level and drew my parang. Riley sprang forward and struck out. I tried to parry, but Riley's cane was a great deal heavier than I thought, and my knife went flying. He came forward and I retreated.

"You don't really need that cane, do you?" I said.

He struck out. I dodged.

"Not for walkin'," he said, and raised it for another strike.

I was not going to let him. I sprang forward and performed a snap kick to the head that Brenda would have been proud of. Riley stumbled backwards. I followed him, chopped my hand down on his wrist. He dropped his cane and I grabbed his wrist, pulled him back towards me, and put one of Alexandra's choke holds on him. He went limp in seconds, and I dropped him to the ground. A quick look round showed me that nobody had seen us dancing. I ran over to where Marcel was slowly getting back to his feet.

"Are you all right?"

He touched his head, looked at the blood on his fingers. "You need to choose your friends with more care, my friend."

I looked over to where Riley lay still. "He's not my friend, exactly."

"Good."

Marcel walked over to the prisoner. He was lying still on the ground, with his head in an unnatural position. Nobody needed to feel his pulse. Marcel bowed his head, picked up a handful of sand and sprinkled it over him. He spoke a few soft words in his own language, looked back at me.

"I am not carrying that white man."

"He may have things to tell us," I said. "I will carry him."

Riley was not dead. I tied his wrists together with his belt and lifted him onto my shoulders. We reached the secret entrance without being seen, and made our way back to the cenote. I dropped Riley onto the altar. He was starting to make feeble noises.

Fatin frowned at me. "Is this the time to go hunting? Look. Guillaume has brought us a capybara. You bring me a Riley? We cannot eat him!"

"We ran into some trouble. There is a prison in the West wall. We emptied it. There was one prisoner inside, but he didn't make it. Riley was in the other prison cell, but he attacked us on the way back." I looked info Fatin's eyes. "Don't trust him. He is not our friend anymore."

Fatin turned her eyes to Riley, back to me. "His waters run dark. Have you brought food to Alex?"

"We will do that now," I said. Grey-haired Theodore was wrapping a bandage round Marcel's head. "As soon as Marcel is up to it."

 
We took the same route as before. The funeral preparations were still going on. The prison was still empty and we passed it quickly, running along the corridor double-time. This part of the City was completely empty and we reached Alex' sniper nest without meeting anyone.

"Food!" Alex pounced on the bag, and started rummaging inside for the biscuits. She cracked one. "You're late," she said, scattering crumbs.

Marcel came walking in the door. Alex stared at him, but he gave her a broad smile.

"Ah. Alexandra? Meet Marcel. Marcel? This is my sister, Alexandra."

"Enchantée," said Alex. "May I ask?"

"He's with the Per Nocta," I said.

Alex stared blankly. "Per Nocta."

"Do you remember the people in the Eagle's nest in Sudan?"

Only the slightest tremor in her face betrayed the memories. She nodded.

"I remember you," said Marcel. He reached out for Alex' hand and gently held it between his own big hands. "You were in prison with Erik and with me. We sang together."

Alex' mouth fell open. "That was you?"

"You have healed well."

"Thank you."

"He's not the only familiar face," I said. "Riley is here as well."

"Riley?" She sounded relieved to change the subject. "What's he doing here?"

"I don't know, but he's up to no good. We found him locked up, but after we got him out, he attacked us."

"Did he say why?"

"No. He was out cold. Rear naked choke, thank you for all the sparring. But rest assured, I will ask him. How is everybody doing here?"

"Brenda was here. Slate murdered one of the old priests. She is a bit annoyed with herself for letting that happen."

"Why?"

"Because she could give a mummy bear a run for her money? It's Brenda."

"No, I mean why did Slate have the priest killed?"

"Don't know. Maybe he has it in for the whole of the priesthood. They are still the spiritual leaders after all. Cremation is this evening. When it gets dark."

"I saw the pyre. Oh. Marcel and I cleared out the prison. Slate's going to know he is not alone here. Meaning search parties. Stay on your toes."

"Always do."

 
We made good time back to the cenote, where we found Riley sitting on the ground with three of the Per Nocta watching him while Fatin was cooking lunch. Roast leg of capybara and mashed cassava. I stepped over to Riley with a bowl.

"Riley. I'm going to untie your hands now because I don't want to spoon-feed you. Do I need to explain what is going to happen if you make any trouble?"

He held up his hands. I undid the belt round his wrists. I gave him the bowl and held the spoon up in his face.

"I don't know how you got here. I don't know what you are doing here. I don't know why you attacked me. But you are going to tell me."

"I thought you were gonna kill me, you bastard. You shot down Boreas."

I sat down in front of Riley. Fatin gave me a bowl of mashed cassava and capybara. It tasted like chicken and mash.

"They shot at us first. Why?"

"Goddamn Paddies, that's why."

"The Irish? Did the brave Sons of Erin spot an English vessel in the skies and decide to right this insufferable wrong?"

"Did you ever walk round a big city mid March and see a humongous horde of goddamn Leprechauns running round wearing green and getting wasted on Guinness stout?"

"Saint Patrick's day. What of it?"

"Seeing as how one of these Paddies had gone flying last year, they thought they'd celebrate in his honour. Irish Stew, roast beef and cabbage, soda bread, the works."

"And then they had a mighty piss-up and thought what a good idea it would be to shoot us out of the sky? Come on, Riley. Captain Gaskin would have had something to say."

"Oh they had a piss-up all right. But the kicker was the goddamn soda bread. Do you know what Prometheus' best weapon is?"

"Mauser pistols? Get to the bloody point, Riley."

"Poison! You were on that camping trip with Hammond weren't you? They went mad. You've had your own Daddy go off his head. Why was that again? Do I need to spell it out for you? Ergot! Someone poisoned the soda bread with ergot, and everybody went crazy!"

"Everyone except you?"

"Yes. I don't eat soda bread. Can't stand the stuff, gives me the goddamn potato blight. So they turned hard to port, manned the guns, and started popping shots at you. If they hadn't been away with the fairies, they'd have got you."

I looked into Riley's eyes. "Would you have any idea who put the ergot in the soda bread, Riley? Any guess at all? Who could have got their grubby American mitts on some Claviceps purpurea?"

"How the hell should I know? Anyone could have done it. Ergot don't wear out over time. You can boil the stuff and it don't matter. Anyone could have dropped some stuff in the baking soda."

"And how did you get off Boreas before she burned down, Riley?"

"Grabbed a cargo parachute and jumped when the lights and noise started. Landed in the river. Nearly didn't make it."

"Oh I'm so sorry to hear that. And then you thought you'd wander over to Slate and ask for a sandwich?"

Riley glared at me. "Where else was I gonna go, you imbecile? The nearest hotel?"

"And Slate tossed you into the tank?"

"You found me there, didn't you?"

"Quest-ce qu'il dit?" said Marcel.

"Le Magister l'a jeté en prison."

"No." Marcel pointed. "I know what someone looks like who has been in Slate's prisons. He is too clean, and he is too fat."

I looked at Marcel. "Even for a white man?"

"When the Magister does not like you, you will suffer, even with a white skin. Your sister knows this. I would believe that he was in prison for a day. Not for a month."

"He was no prisoner."

"No."

"He was working there."

"Yes."

"He locked himself in, to fool us."

Marcel gave a little chuckle. "To fool you."

I sneered. "Well, if he likes being a prisoner so much, then he is in luck."

Godfrey Pike: Culpability

Jocelyn's report card - Pent up anger - A force for good? - Kirov by the South Pole - First signs from Khartoum - A bright future in the darkness

 

VISITORS FROM TRINITY COLLEGE Rina Prescott reporting

 

We have visitors from abroad! Miss Eileen Reid of Trinity College, Dublin, was assigned a bed in our dorm and kindly agreed to being interviewed by the Clarion. Eileen is a rare female student in the traditionally male dominated environment of Applied Physics. When asked about her experience as a woman, she confided that 'You are right, nobody ever tells the boys how big their tits are. I keep telling them them to grow a pair.' In her chosen subject of Electricity, Eileen often faces the ridicule of male students who all but accuse her of practicing witchcraft. This is a situation that is never adressed by Trinity's faculty. We can all commend Miss Reid for her staunch perseverance in the face of adversity.

 
This makes my blood boil. -- RP

You should interview some of Brassica's girls. -- LD

What, them? No thanks. They have their head and feet firmly in the clouds of God only knows what herb. -- RP

 

---

 
I had delivered Jocelyn back to her dorm, to change back into her Algernon University uniform, disguising herself as a normal student. I wondered what to do next, and decided to pay Dr. Lutitia McGee a visit. I knocked on her door and her voice came from within.

"Just a moment! Ow! Get over here you little monster!"

"Um... is everything all right, Dr. McGee?"

"Yes, fine fine. Just dealing with this bird. If I open the door it'll fly off and I'll never see her again. Or him. Do you know how to sex a conure?"

I stared at the door with its neatly handwritten sign: Dr. Lutitia McGee, Mental Sciences. "I have to admit the situation hasn't come up in my travels."

The door opened, and the somewhat flushed face of Dr. McGee greeted me. "Oh. Pike. Come in, come in."

I walked into her room and she showed me a wire cage where a smallish yellow and green bird with a red tail eyed me suspiciously. Lutitia pulled out the feeding tray, shook in some sunflower seeds from a bag and pushed it back into the cage. The bird hopped onto the edge of the tray, picked up a seed, and opened it. The offering was accepted. A good omen.

"Pike. What can I do for you?"

"Jocelyn and I have returned from the faraway Americas, after great deeds. I thought you'd want to know how she did."

"Oh absolutely." She put me in her comfortable chair, poured me a cup of tea. "She did well, didn't she?"

"She did. She was completely convincing as a mentally disturbed woman."

"I thought she might be. Don't think it's easy, Pike. There is a method to every madness."

"I am sure there is."

"You don't believe me, do you? Someone once tried to tell me he was seeing his long deceased grandmother. I was almost convinced, but then he touched her. And that's a hard no. The lack of tactile information would have shook him out of his delusion. So he wasn't delusional, he was trying to fool me."

"Interesting."

"That's why I study these things, don't I Nutty?"

"What?"

"The bird. Its name is Nutty."

"Ah." I wanted to say more, but honestly didn't know what.

Lutitia looked at me with a bright gleam in her eye. "How has Jocelyn dealt with all this?"

I heaved a deep sigh. "Admirably. She's tough. They strapped her to a bed, poured her full of 'brain juice,' that's her word for it."

"Scopolamine, is what I'd guess. Truth serum."

"Quite. Stupid name for it. Even after that, Miss Vale still wants to join the Secret Service." I shook my head.

"Then why aren't you happy for her? She's found her calling in life. That's a rare treat at her age."

My hands closed up into tight fists. "She'll die. In some godforsaken hellhole, being tortured, raped, beaten... For God's sake, why should I be glad of that?"

I felt Lutitia's hand on mine, gently stroking it until I unclenched my fists.

"Godfrey. It's all right. You can be angry with her. It is a natural reaction."

"Angry? With Jocelyn?"

"No. Angry with Maisie Dors."

I could not utter a word for ten long seconds. "I'm not angry with her! I am angry with myself! I should have seen it coming. I should have paid the price, not her."

"No." Lutitia shook her head. "She was careless. She got caught. You taught her better than that."

"Obviously, I didn't teach her well enough."

"Or maybe she didn't learn it well enough. You have been hammering into Jocelyn what the price of failure is, haven't you? And still, she got caught. Twice now. There comes a time when your apprentice becomes her own person. Maisie Dors suffered the consequences of her own actions. You told her over and over again, and still she failed to keep herself safe."

The face of the girl, what was left of it, swam in front of my eyes again. I looked up at Lutitia, friendly, whole. "She did not deserve what happened to her."

"Deserve it, no. Nobody does. But she was not sharp enough to see it coming. You, or someone else, would have been. You taught her as well as you could. It's not your fault."

I said nothing. Lutitia's words made perfect sense, but I would never believe it in a hundred years. She pierced me with a gaze.

"Damn it Godfrey. Tell me. This instant. What is your greatest achievement. Speak now."

Images floated in front of me. Green leaves. Heat. Rain. Incessant noises of insects and animals.

"I was in Angola. Keeping the peace where there was no peace to keep. Everybody there was at everybody else's throat. We came upon a village that was being overrun by another tribe. They would be slaughtered all. Man, woman, and child. We were on our way to some other cesspool of violence, with a mortar team and some light and heavy machine guns. I managed to convince my captain to intervene, and we barged in, fired a few hundred rounds over their heads, popped off a few mortar rounds, and drove off the attackers, but without killing anyone."

Lutitia's bright grin pierced my heart. "That is wonderful! See? You are a force for Good, Godfrey."

I smiled grimly. "On our way back, we passed by the other village. It was a smoking, fly-infested ruin. The people whose lives we had saved, had dug up their weapons and slaughtered everyone. All we did was decide who lived, and who died. Saving both villages was simply not in the cards. We are not heroes, Lutitia. It is not for us to make the world a better place. The best we can hope for is that we sometimes don't make it worse."

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
Pardon me for not writing earlier, but there has not been much to report these last few months. However, it will interest you to know that I took Miss Jocelyn Vale on her first proper spy mission this month, and she performed as well as may be expected. If you don't mind, I would like to keep her under my wing just for a little while longer until I am sure that she can perform equally well under pressure. I will ask her to write a report, and send you a copy.

As for the mission itself, young Wainwright's acrobatics have provided us with useful information on the last mission of the airship Boreas. They had no orders to attack Lady I, quite the opposite. They were told to assist her when needed. Why then did they open fire on the Tennants?

One answer was provided us by Master Nazeem of the nebulous Order of Cross and Moon. He holds that an Evil Influence descended upon Boreas and her crew, which drove them to attack. Sad to say, Master Nazeem did not tell us more about the nature of this Influence, but if Prometheus is involved, I can make a guess. Poisoning their enemy's food sources with ergot fungus is an established part of their modus operandi.

Wainwright also obtained a copy of the muster roll. There was one name redacted. A little detective work and some guessing suggests that the mystery crew member is Mr. James T. Riley. Why he didn't want it to be known he was on board Boreas, I don't know. We must assume that he perished when Boreas went down.

As you will have heard, Prometheus and Algernon University are no longer the only people to use the luminiferous æther as a speaking tube. There is a third party. Rather than the arrangement with dials and clocks, they use the Morse code known from Aldis lights. An intercepted message suggests that the Tennant family and their cabin boy Brenda Lee are all alive and well, and sneaking round Anctapolepl. One of the parties is identified with the letters P.N.A.L. If this name is known to you, please let me know.

I have had a visit from Mr. Shintaro Uda, one of Prof. Parker's sparks. He informed me that the Kirov station is back in action, but the signal is coming from the South, not the East. I asked him if there could have been some sort of mistake, and he asked me if I would leave my chambers by the door or by the window. The Sparks take pride in their measurements. So South it is. I asked him how far south, and he said it was hard to be sure, but far away. So Prometheus moves in the far, far South. The wonders of Science will never fail to amaze me, Winston.

All in all, time well used, I should say. We will have to try and find out who P.N.A.L. and their associates are.

 
Yours,

Pike.

 

---

 
Khartoum, //____

 
Dear Professor Pike,

 
I have arrived in Khartoum, and am a guest in Mr. Bouzid Moghadam's mansion. I have had the honour of sharing dinner with my host. It is of course well known why I am here, but courtesy does not permit us to speak of these matters just yet. Accordingly, the names of our mutual acquaintances have not yet passed over the table. The dinner was sublime, and so far, the coffee is good.

I have passed on to Mr. Ahmad Moghadam the condolences from Professors Enderby and Wadcroft, and he has accepted them with his thanks.

It has pleased Mr. Bouzid Moghadam to allow me the use of one of his guest rooms. I believe it is the same one that your protégé occupied before the disturbing events occurred to which we now seek a harmonious resolution.

I would be remiss if I did not give the proper praise to Mr. Moghadam's house staff, who have seen to my every need with but a whispered hint. I have asked them to post this letter for me, as it would be inadvisable for me to venture beyond the Mansion walls.

 
I am confident that Inshallah, we will be able to set to rest the unfortunate misunderstandings that may have arisen between Khartoum and Ipswich. We will soon be able to put this unfortunate enmity behind us when all is understood and brought to an end.

 
Yours truly,

Omar Khouri

 

---

 
Khartoum, //____

 
Dear Professor Pike,

 
I have had a discussion with Mr. Bouzid Moghadam. We have mostly spoken about the involvement of Miss Sabine Moreau in the unfortunate events preceding the death of Mrs. Najilah Moghadam, Allah yarhemha. Mr. Moghadam was led to believe that Sabine was a fellow victim of kidnapping, destined to be sold at auction as Mrs. Najilah was. I have suggested to Mr. Moghadam that she may have played a more sinister role. The fact that she disappeared without a trace from the El Ban Jadeed Hospital casts more suspicion on her. Mr. Moghadam has agreed to mount a search for Miss Moreau, though it is unlikely that she is still in the country.

We have briefly spoken about Captain Tennant and his crew, but Mr. Moghadam remains adamant that he wishes to have them questioned by his own people, in his own country. It is not the first time Lady I and her crew have been at odds with the Moghadam household. I have told him that we believe Lady I to be in South America, but we have no more specific information. I have suggested that being out of his reach, we can only ask them to come and speak with us. He responded that his reach extends further than we know, and left it at that.

I will continue speaking with him, if only for the excellent coffee he serves. I must secure a few bags of the beans.

 
Yours,

Omar Khouri

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
Please find attached a copy of the letters sent to me by Mr. Omar Khouri. It seems little progress has been made just yet, but Omar knows what he is doing. I like the phrase "the coffee is good." It is a well established custom to indicate how well a negotiation is going. When the coffee is good, everyone is happy.

When Wainwright stayed at Moghadam manor, he confirmed to me that he was observed most of the time, except on one occasion when Mrs. Najilah Moghadam visited him in the night. If Omar is in the same room, we must assume that he is not able to speak more plainly.

It is good to know that he is well looked after, and that the house staff is willing to risk life and limb to carry his messages. They will, of course, also read them. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that he just gives them the letter without an envelope to save them the trouble of steaming it open.

Thank you again for assigning Omar to this job, Winston. I'm sure he will do well.

 
Yours,

Pike.

 

---

 
I had returned from dinner, the usual bland affair, and was reading reports from Porter Barker. He was rightly owed a raise or a medal or some such, as he kept coming up with more and more elaborate schemes and traps for the Promethean evildoers. Had there been any Prometheus activity, he would no doubt have saved all of our lives. As it was, he had caught three boys smoking behind the stables, and two girls and a boy engaging in practical biology in a storeroom. Nobody had been expelled, but stern words were had. I was about to put away the epic saga when there was a knock on the door and Jocelyn came in with her report on Operation Brain Juice as we were now calling it. She wanted to know how she did.

"You are still breathing," I said. "We found the information we came for, and nobody is any the wiser what we were there for. Your sixth sense for danger still needs a little work, but over all, it's a pass."

She closed her eyes, shook her head as if to dislodge a stuck thought. "I keep remembering things, and I'm not sure if it happened or not. They were showing me a big knife and asking me if I recognised it. I know that didn't happen. So why am I remembering it?"

"I'm not really the one to ask. Ask Professor McGee if you want, it's her subject. It's probably an after effect of the scopolomine."

"Um..." Dark eyes looked at me. "Is Agent Wainwright around? I need to ask him something."

"He's in London at the moment, but you can write him. Ask him what?"

Jocelyn winced. "I keep remembering, well, things I asked him. Not knowing if I really did drives me batty."

I made a guess. "You did not proposition him. I was there. I know."

"Oh thank God. I couldn't have faced him after that."

"You did say he is handsome, though. So there is that."

Jocelyn put her elbows on the table, her head on her hands. She looked out of the window with a little smile on her face.

"He is, isn't he?" Her eyes opened wide. "Um..."

"Miss Vale, the brain juice has worn off. The bees have vacated the bonnet. No bats remain in the belfry. Anything you share about Agent Wainwright from this moment on is therefore your own problem."

Jocelyn chuckled. "I will keep my opinions about Agent Wainwright under wraps." She turned dark eyes to me. "Professor. Thank you for this. For letting me come with you. It's the best lesson ever."

I looked at her. In her uniform, she vanished between her classmates like a brick in a wall. There was no way to describe what she looked like in any way that wouldn't apply to a dozen other girls. In other ways, there was no mistaking her in a million girls.

"Jocelyn," I said. "Would you do me a favour?"

"Of course," she said. "What is it?"

"Live to be a hundred, will you?"

Brenda Lee: Right at home

Burn what you can, bury what you can't - Healthy exercise - Real and imaginary friends - Suspicious Sabine - Exchange of intelligence, such as it is - Fuse is getting short

 

JOCELYN BACK Rina Prescott reporting

 

Those of you who know Jocelyn Vale may have noticed she was missing for all of last week. I am glad to say that she is back. When asked, she informed the Clarion in confidence that she was abducted by white slave traders. She was flown to the Americas in an unmarked airship in the company of a crew of Dutch fishermen from Ymuiden and a Romanian women's choir who kept up everybody's spirits with Gregorian chant. Upon arrival, she was cruelly separated from her new companions and sold for a fabulous amount of American dollars to a group of mad scientists who wanted to perform unethical experiments on her brain. She was spared such a fate by the handsome and fearless Agent ████████ of the ████████, who quickly and expertly despatched the insane evildoers. Agent ████████ returned Jocelyn home, having a brief and torrid love affair with her on the way. Sadly she had to let him go, as the wild regions of Cornwall called him, and he could not resist. He is currently roaming the fells and fens as a Wild Man. Jocelyn showed me the half of a broken Mexican peso, which she wears on a silver chain close to her heart. Agent ████████ wears the other half, and so, should he return, will they recognise each other no matter how many years will have passed. Dear Readers, scepticism is a value close to the hearts of all who produce this periodical, but John Keats reminds us that beauty is truth, truth beauty - that is all. This is simply too beautiful not to be true.

 
Welcome back, Crazy Girl! -- LD

Good to be back, suckers! What's been happening? -- JV

Nothing as spectacular as what you have been doing. -- RP

Oh cut out Agent ████████'s name will you? He's hoping for a political career. -- JV

Done. -- LD

 

---

 
The old priest was cremated this morning. I suppose that to one of the eggheads like Prof Margaret Enderby, this would be the chance of a lifetime. Find out all about what Aztecs do with dead people, and write a big fat paper about it. So for their benefit, they built a stack of wood, put the man on it, and set it on fire. Later, someone came and swept the ashes into a hole, and put some of it in bottles. No, don't thank me, it's the least I could do.

I came back from a nice healthy run round the temple, with my new running friend Sabine. She's improving fast, and she returns the favour by teaching me more and more useful French words. Maybe I'll retire to France and start a farm. I know the words for all the animals and what you can use them for. I've also been spotted by what passes for the Marines here. They call themselves the Jaguars, or the Ocelomeh. Ostwald keeps trying to call them the Feathered Serpents, after one of the big gods here. Ostwald is such an Arschloch. Back in Prussia, would he call his platoon the Jesuskrieger? Now that I think about it, he would. He's the type. But anyway, as soon as I set off on one of my runs, Tupoc appears out of nowhere and runs along with us. Got to say, he's pretty damn fit. He can run backwards as fast as prissy Miss Moreau can run forwards. Which crushes her soul, but that's the point. Got to break them down to nothing, then build them up again. Or leave 'em like that. Tupoc does have one of those orange spotted baby suits, but for running, he doesn't wear it. You can tell they're a bunch of primitives here, they don't even have PT shirts. But it's not mine to point that out to him. If they want to run around shirtless like heathens, then who am I to tell them they can't? Gotta respect the culture.

I wish I knew more of the language. It's not that I don't talk to Tupoc, he never stops yakking at me. I can't understand a word he's saying and he can't understand me. It's like talking to a pet. I talk to Stranger all the time, but I don't expect him to answer. Oh. Stranger likes it here too. It's a drag getting him food, him being an obligate carnivore in a place where nobody eats much meat, but there's plenty of mice and other little critters around. He's left me presents. There's nothing like sharing your bed with a guinea pig with its head chewed off by your Little Hunter. But what can you do? He does it because he loves me, so I tell him what a good little boy he is and dump the thing somewhere out of sight.

Alexandra pointed out to me who her new friend is, a girl somewhere between fourteen and seventeen. Her name is Chipahua. She helps the cook Tonalnan and serves food to the high-ups, the priests, the alchemist, and of course Slate and his lackeys. She's in Sabine's class, so she knows some French, which would help a lot if I spoke more of it. I don't want to tell her to go fuck a goat, she looks like a nice girl. So I'm only observing for now.

Talking to Alexandra is getting to be more and more of a pain in the ass. It's not that I can't outrun Sabine, but when I do, she's going to wonder why. I wear her out till she falls asleep, and then I can sneak out to Alexandra's sniper nest. That does sound filthy, but I can tell you she likes them younger than me. And that sounds about as filthy as it really is. I'm easy going by nature. Live and let live. Long as you harm none, do what you want. That being said, I'm leaning more and more to the opinion that the world would be a happier place if Sabine Moreau's head were in some other place than on her shoulders.

 
I can usually find the Captain hanging out with his Priest friends when he's not pretending to be a Grand Wizard or mingling with the general populace. He makes a point of never speaking against the Magister himself. He points out things to the priests, they tell the rest of the people, and then they leave people to make their own minds up. I can see why that would be better. If one white man is feeding you lies, why would another white man be telling you the truth? But it sure takes a long time, and I'm not sure we have all that much time. Can't shake the feeling that Slate is going to find out something sooner or later, and then there will be trouble.

As far as I can see, the Old Man is not going mad, or turning evil and plotting to become the King. He still talks to his invisible dead women, but I'm giving him a pass on that as long as he knows they're dead.

 
This evening, I had finished some work on my maps of the place, and I thought I'd go outside, maybe watch the game and cheer on the big stupid men who hurl themselves to the floor to make a ball bounce. But first, I wanted to see the Captain. As soon as I set foot outside my room, my little shadow was with me. I didn't feel like talking to her, so I walked on to the home of Xiuhtecuhtli. We passed the door to the old priest's chambers. A black curtain was across it. Somewhere inside there would be a couple of urns with his ashes in.

"He was old." Sabine said. "He'd have died soon anyway. Now, at least, he's played a part in building the new world order."

"Go to hell, Sabine."

Her smile made my skin crawl. "Sooner or later, everyone plays a part. Even you."

"If you think I'm going to help you and your dirty plans, you're out of your mind."

She stopped, turned to me.

"What makes you think you aren't already?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You think you're being clever? You think you can walk in and play with us, and we won't even notice? Oh Brenda. You're not nearly smart enough for that."

"Oh shut up, will you? You know exactly why we're here. We had nowhere else to go."

"Oh please, Brenda. Of all the places in the world you could have flown to, your Captain just happened to fly here? Did his poor dead Aztec whore want another bite at the apple maybe? It can get so lonely in the afterlife." She reached out to touch my face and I slapped her hand away. "You are here to oppose the Magister's purposes, and you will fail. You will end up helping us because you aren't smart enough to avoid that. We are superior to you in every way, and when we pull your strings, you will dance for us. The only thing you can do better than me is run." She laughed. "So run along now, little soldier."

"Marine," I said, and Sabine said it at exactly the same time as me.

"I'm gonna piss on your corpse."

"How unsanitary. And how will you end me? Beat me to death? Stab me with that toy on your hip? A bullet in the head?" She looked into my eyes. "From a long way away, maybe?"

I knew exactly what she was getting at. "Alexandra Tennant is dead. She was on the gun deck when we came down, and she broke her back. Died a week later 'cause she didn't want to go on anymore."

"Oh poor, poor Alexandra. I wish I'd been there for her. To watch her bravely clinging on to life for a little while, despite the pain. Then realising that death would be better than to be an invalid for the rest of her life. To remind her of all the amazing things she did, climbing, running, jumping, taking a piss by herself. The things she'd never do again. To watch the hope die in her eyes. Listen to her final breath, and tell her she failed the moment before the dying of the light."

"You sick bitch." I set off for the priest hole at a quick march. She followed me.

"Faster," she whispered. "I can still keep up with you."

 
I got to the priest's room with Sabine still trailing me. The priest... Yaotel, I think, was telling them a story, memories. The Captain and the other priest were laughing. I stepped inside. The captain waved his hand at me.

"Miss Lee. Welcome, welcome. I'd offer you a cup of cocoa, but Yaotel has been quite fierce with the chillies."

"Wouldn't deprive you, Captain. Anything you may be wanting, or can I go and watch the dumbasses break their bones?"

One of the priests, Xiuhtecuhtli I think, asked the Captain a question. I could just about catch the word ullamaliztli in his reply. The other guy pointed at me and replied to the Captain, looked at me with a little laugh.

"Yaotel says you should join in. You have the hips for it."

"Tell that old goat of a priest to stop staring at them."

"Sorry my dear. 'Old Goat' doesn't have the same connotations in Nahuatl that it does in English, and I don't know the right phrase to use."

"Teach them a civilised language," said Sabine.

"Oh, bonsoir, ma petite," said the Captain. "Didn't see you there."

"What are you imbeciles talking about?"

Yaotel asked the Captain what Sabine was saying, and he translated. Yaotel looked Sabine up and down once or twice with a filthy little grin on his face.

"What?!" said Sabine, always the curious one.

"Tlamacazcui Yaotel is worried about your health. You should put some meat on your bones or you'll never enjoy a festival..." He frowned, asked Yaotel something. "Sorry. Be the joy of a festival."

"And what does he mean by that?"

"There are always some choice meat dishes at the festival holy to Tlaloc."

Sabine scowled at the Captain. "Is that fool threatening me?"

"I'm afraid so, Sabine. Don't take it too hard, after all you did kill his friend."

"His senile old priest friend tried to talk to the Gods in the way that only his betters can, and paid the price."

The Captain's eye fixed Sabine. "Would you like me to translate that for you, or would you like to reconsider the way you phrased that? The Aztec priesthood are good at getting rid of bodies. It's sort of a speciality."

"Translate this," said Sabine. "The only reason he is breathing now, is because the Magister can still get some use out of him. But if he becomes too much of a bother, he will vanish so quickly and so completely that people won't even remember he was ever there." She looked at Yaotel. "Et je lui verrai brûler avec un sourire."

I had to ask the Captain what she was saying. And I will smile watching him burn. Got to hand it to the bitch. She knows how to make a threat.

 

---

 
This Marine gets grumpy if her beauty sleep is interrupted. Which works out when the tactical situation demands that you be grumpy. I got into bed stretching and yawning and telling Sabine to get lost like every other night, waited for her to push off, and then engaged in some good old fashion sneaking. Now I never was one of those people whose military occupational specialty includes sneaking around. Mine was building things and now and then blowing things to pieces, both activities for which stealth is not a priority. But regardless, I got out of the house and into Alexandra's little home without anyone seeing me. I found her sitting in a corner with a blanket round her. She decided not to shoot me and put away her pistol. As a reward, I pulled out a copy of my maps and gave them to her. She lit her little red lantern.

"Good lord, these are detailed. Well done." She put the maps away. "Any news?"

"Your dad is still working on the natives. They're getting restless, but they aren't getting restless fast enough if you ask me."

"How is he?"

"Not going mad. Yet."

"That's good." She looked away for a while, drawn into herself.

"What's wrong, Tennant?"

She shook her head. "We have new friends. Miners. From the old Eagle's nest."

"Oh crap," I said. "Just what we need. How'd they get here?"

"Why oh crap?"

Sometimes Miss Alexandra Tennant can be really dumb. Not a year ago they were, for want of a better word, slaves. I was with the people who enslaved them. She didn't think that mattered.

"They call themselves the Per Nocta Ad Lucem. Through the night towards the light. I've seen only one of them. A big guy who's now named Marcel. He was here with Carl."

"I have to stay away from them. They'll tear me to bits."

"He was friendly enough to me."

"You were a prisoner, Tennant. I was a guard."

She put her hand on my arm. "You carried me out of there."

"That wasn't entirely my idea."

"We're on the same side now. We won't let them hurt you. Oh. Speaking of sides. Remember Riley?"

"Yeah. What about him?"

"He's here, and he's not on our side anymore. He attacked Marcel, and he attacked Carl."

"Oh? Who won?"

"Carl."

"My boy. When did Riley turn evil?"

"Childbirth? That is a very good question, though. We've no idea. And no way of finding out."

"And where did you find him?"

"Prison. Carl says he was pretending to be a prisoner. Marcel cleaned the place out."

"Wonderful. I can see why he'd do that, but I wish he hadn't. You're not exactly being stealthy here. Slate's going to want to know what happened."

"I know, but what can I do? Sit tight here and prepare to shoot anyone who looks at you strangely." Alexandra gave me a filthy grin. "Like that big strong guy who keeps following you around."

"What, Tupoc?"

"I don't know his name. Tall, brown skin, rippling muscles, never seems to wear a shirt around you."

"Oh him. He is good at not wearing a shirt, isn't he?"

Alexandra grabbed my shoulders. Her eyes bored into mine. "Remember Brenda. If ever he treats you with any less respect than you deserve, give me a sign, and I'll make sure he troubles you no more."

"Not before I'm done with him, Tennant."

She looked up at the Heavens. "Send one of his friends up here, would you? Living vicariously through you is the dumps."

"You know, I always thought this place would be hell on earth, a bit like the Eagle's nest, but with unpronounceable gods. But it's really not so bad. The food is great, there's games in the evening, people are happy enough. Unless there's something I haven't seen yet, I could live here. Maybe the place has changed since the Captain left."

"I suppose finding the woman of your dreams, only to have her heart stolen by a priest, can spoil the fun. A little."

"Yeah, I reckon. Anything I've missed? Oh yes. Sabine is being a pain."

"Plus ça change," said Alexandra, "The more it's the same thing."

"She still doesn't believe you're dead."

"Neither do I."

"This evening she was going on about sniper bullets, I told her the story of how your poor body was crushed on the gun deck when Lady I came down, and how you desperately clung to life for a week before dying in your father's arms."

"Oh poor girl. Um. Did you tell Father that story?"

"No, why?"

"If Sabine tells Slate, and Slate asks Father how I died, and he says I fell out of the bomb hatch, then they know something is rotten in the City of Anctapolepl."

Sometimes, Shieldmaiden Brenda Lee can also be really dumb. I gave myself a good mental kick in the ass. I got to my feet.

"Guess I'd better go tell him."

"Break the news to him gently. See you tomorrow?"

"Unless Sabine wants me to do her hair or something."

 

---

 
I sneaked back into our bedroom, but the Captain wasn't there. I made my way to the Priest's room, and found Captain Tennant, cup of something milky and sour smelling in his hand. And from the good cheer in the room, I could tell it was alcoholic.

"Miss Lee!" The Captain raised his cup to me. "I'd offer you a cup of this, but it is not permitted for women to partake of this sacred beverage."

"Thank God for that. Captain? Can I have a quick word?"

"We are in the middle of a wake, Miss Lee. It may not look like it, but this is a solemn and prayerful affair. I don't want to insult my friends."

"There's something you need to know right now."

"What I need, Miss Lee, is to be left alone with the High Priests."

"You're drinking... what is that stuff?"

"Pulque. Also known as octli. About as strong as ale, and trust me, I will not go beyond the fourth cup. It is forbidden."

"Riley is here."

"Miss Lee!" God, if the Old Man can stare like this with one eye, it's a miracle Alexandra and Carl are still alive. "I don't give a damn about Riley. Now leave me alone."

"One thing. If anyone asks you how your daughter died, don't answer."

 
Christ Almighty. If I say that I have something important, would it be too much of a bother to listen? I've heard of whole companies being wiped out because of crap like this. I'm gonna dig a goddamn hole somewhere and hide in it.

Alexandra Tennant: Unhealthy relations

Goings on in the city - Sabine's love - Revealing attire - Yaretzi's tryst - A terrible accident - Family visit - The bearer of bad news

 

PHOTOGRAPHY COMPETITION IS ON Linda Davenport reporting

 

The Algernon Photography Club have told the Clarion that the new dark room facilities kindly made available by the High Energy Alchemy department will be put to good use with an all Algernon photography competition. People wishing to enter this competition can do so by submitting one photograph to be judged by competent faculty members at the end of next month. There is no restriction on the subject of the images. While the club Leica cameras will be available only to members, anyone can book time in the dark room. The list is on the notice board in the main building's entrance hall. Be certain that the Clarion will follow any developments closely. Some of your reporters may even enter! The Clarion wishes all competitors good luck and sunny days.

 
I'm not entering! Are you? -- RP

No, blast it. I was going to but my subject won't cooperate -- LD

Subject? -- RP

Mr. Phillips declined my request. -- LD

What, Norbert?! -- RP

Linda, nude photography is where the subject is naked, not the photographer. -- JV

I wasn't going to take his picture with his clothes off, you trollop! A tasteful image of him and his Aldis light. Staring into the Unknown Distances. -- LD

With his shirt on or off? - RP

I hate you both. - LD

 

---

 
They call it overwatch. You stand over your friends, and watch them. If something bad is heading for them, you kill it before it kills your friends. I was in a nice high position, watching the goings-on below through my spotting scope. I had measured and re-measured the range and elevation from my position to every nook and cranny of the main square. I could have put a bullet through the ullamaliztli loops on the walls, instantly winning any game.

Father had set up his little hydrogen factory in the main square, as always inside a circle of stone markers to keep out non-alchemists and non-Shieldmaidens. Brenda was standing next to him in the classic body guard pose, arms crossed in front of her, quietly observing everything, admiring nothing. Father was working on the problem of storing large amounts of hydrogen gas. He was now using a rubber balloon and a bellows connected to his apparatus with a gutta percha hose. There was, of course, a perfectly good hydrogen storage tank not twenty miles away. It was even half full. But the less said about that, the better. Truthfully, this entire operation was a piece of theatre for Slate.

A bell rang out. For a little variety, I put down my spotting scope, picked up my rifle, turned it to the girls' class. From a distance, it looked so wholesome. The children's much-loved teacher filling their minds with useful knowledge. Lessons learnt, they came out smiling and laughing, with Maîtresse Sabine affectionately stroking the hair of one of her adoring pupils.

I knew better.

It made me want to throw up.

By moving my finger, I could end this entire travesty. I took the safety off my rifle, put it back on, never intending to fire. I reduced the magnification on my scope to see more. Chipahua was looking straight at my hiding place, smiling. She raised her hand a little, away from everyone else, and waved. Damn, damn, damn.

I turned to the practice ground where the Feathered Serpents, or rather the Ocelomeh, were being taught how to be warriors by a large grizzled Prussian named Ostwald. They made a fearsome sight, wielding spears and that traditional weapon of the Aztec, the macuahuitl. Using modern tactics taught by Ostwald, they would have cut through similarly armed enemies like avenging angels, but as I'm sure Ostwald knew, a single rifle company with enough ammunition could destroy them to the last man. Maybe Ostwald didn't trust them enough yet to give them weapons so powerful that he and his few companions couldn't defeat them.

At noon, there was a blast on the horn, and Slate came out to give one of his speeches in Latin. The acoustics in this cave were absolutely superb, and Slate's voice rang out like that of an opera singer in a theatre. I couldn't understand a word of what he was saying, but I could well understand the effect his speech was having. He lowered his arms, turned round, went back inside.

Time for tea.

 

---

 
Chipahua came to visit me in the afternoon, bearing gifts of delicious food. She sat on the table as I worked my way through a spicy filled pancake. I can handle hot curries, even the hellish Vindaloo, which is an ancient Punjabi phrase meaning "Pale-face idiot trying to impress his mates." This had even me sweating and basking in the high that hot dishes give you. Chipahua was sitting on the table dangling her legs, gently complaining about her friend Yaretzi, who was dribbling whenever Sabine Moreau was even mentioned.

"Do you like this dress?" Chipahua sat up straight, smoothing it over her slender body and modest curves.

"It looks lovely on you," I said.

"Yaretzi has the same one, Ixtli makes them for everybody. But I swear, she's had hers changed to show more of her baps. And they're not even bigger than mine. Not much anyway. All so Maîtresse Sabine will notice her."

I took a deep breath. "I think she may already have noticed."

"I know! And Yaretzi knows!"

I touched Chipahua's shoulder. "You must warn Yaretzi. Sabine Moreau is... dangerous. She is not who you think she is."

"I told her. She and Teacher, it's not proper. But Yaretzi thinks she's ten times as big as she is, only because she's got the only white woman in the whole city as her special friend." She smiled smugly. "Well sorry Yaretzi, my special friend is even whiter than yours."

I gave her a hard stare. "I told you not to tell anyone about me. Did you tell Yaretzi about me?"

Chipahua blushed. "No! No of course not. Elle ne me croiserais pas quand même. And she doesn't listen to me anyway. Her rendez-vous with Maîtresse Sabine is all she's thinking of."

I was lost for words for a long few moments.

"What?"

"Yaretzi has convinced Maîtresse Sabine to go on a walk with her. Alone. To a special place."

I closed my eyes, hung my head, groaned. Yaretzi was a child. She was nowhere near subtle enough to know that she was not the one doing the convincing. A deep red anger boiled inside me. How dare Sabine do such a thing. How dare she use one of the children in her care as a plaything. I looked up. Chipahua was laughing.

"I could still win." She moved her hips. "Would you be willing?"

I snarled at her. "Do you think this is a game? Do you think we are playing?"

Chipahua's eyes grew large and she waved her hands. "No! No! Alexandra, I was joking! I don't really want to..."

"You want to see my bare skin? I'll show you! I'll show you how serious a game this is."

I pulled open my all-environment suit, stripped it off. I pulled off my undergarment, standing almost naked in front of her, my body revealed in all its horror.

I pointed at scars on my breasts. "This is where Hester Klemm burnt my skin with candles."

I pointed at my arm. "This is where she cut me with a knife."

I showed her the bullet wound on my thigh. "This is where she shot me so I would bleed to death slowly."

I moved my face closer to Chipahua, pointed. "This is where they punched and kicked me so hard and so often that I feared I would die. And this..."

I pointed at the rope marks on my thighs. "This is where they tied down my legs and slowly broke them, so that I feared more that I wouldn't die. Hester Klemm worked for the Magister, and so does Sabine Moreau."

Chipahua stared at me, terrified. "You are not with the Magister. You are against him!"

She jumped off the table, ready to run. I reached out, grabbed her arms, held her.

"I work for you! For you, and Yaretzi, and Ixtli, and everybody in this city. Everybody that Nicholas Slate is trying to enslave for God knows what purpose. He is not the king you asked for in your prayers. He does not worship the gods of your ancestors. Please. Please let me help you."

Tears were streaming down her face, and mine as well. I pulled her to me, held her close. Her arms were around me. We didn't move for a long time, simply holding each other.

"I will do anything for you that I can. Anything. Don't visit me here again. Forget I am here. If Yaretzi thinks you made me up, then good."

I let go of her, found my clothes, pulled them on.

"Go," I said. "Until this is over."

 
As she walked out of the door, my first instinct was to run. I should have moved the first time I was seen. Still, I had a job to do. I had to watch over my father and Brenda. I thought of finding a new spot, maybe a little higher up, but that would present its own problems. Brenda, Carl, Fatin, would come to this place to find me and if they had to go looking for me, they would be at risk of being seen. I decided to wait till I'd spoken to both of them. Until then, I closed the door leading to the hallway and put the table in front of it. Maybe they would come for me, but I could see them coming through the window, and now I would hear them coming through the door. I pulled out my spotting scope and resumed my vigil.

 

---

 
I hardly slept that night. I watched the golden sunlight slowly pouring into the crater, the start of a new day. The farm workers were escorted out by a few of the Ocelomeh, Slate showed himself and spoke words of infinite wisdom in a dead language, Father came out and resumed the construction of a large-scale hydrogen factory.

I watched the girls walk into Miss Sabine's school. Chipahua's shoulders were sagging. Next to her walked Yaretzi, who was talking to her without stopping. Chipahua glared at her and told her to shut up. Yaretzi stuck her nose in the air and entered the classroom, slate and stylus ready as befits Teacher's favourite. It didn't look like Chipahua had convinced her, or even talked to her. They reminded me so much of the girls in the Algernon Rifle Club. I wished I could take them both under my arms and fly with them to Ipswich. They would get on so well with Florence, Carrie, Jocelyn, Linda, Rina.

 
The school bell rang and all the girls came walking out. Chipahua immediately disappeared inside without looking left or right. Sabine was the last to come out, with Yaretzi. I looked away as Sabine gently stroked her hair. She sent Yaretzi away, went back into the classroom, to come out with a rolled-up woollen blanket. She only had to wait a few minutes, and Yaretzi was back carrying a food bag. They walked away. Just before they passed out of sight, Sabine reached for Yaretzi's hand. Yaretzi looked up at her with shining eyes and a glowing smile, deliriously in love.

What was it about Sabine Moreau that drew people to her to such an unholy degree?

There was a sense of intensity about her, a feeling that to her, you were the most important thing in the world. So compelling, so convincing. But it was a mask, nothing more. A lure. A promise she never intended to keep. I had seen her do it before, the night I shot Najilah Moghadam. She had been angry, but not at the loss of her new found lover. I had interrupted her game.

Here and now, Sabine Moreau was playing the same game, not with a grown woman, but with a girl of maybe sixteen or seventeen. I still don't know at what age girls come of age in the City, but that didn't matter. Sabine Moreau was Yaretzi's teacher. She had authority over her. She was abusing that authority in the worst way. I was afraid for young Yaretzi. Sabine would draw her in, then devour her whole.

They emerged from behind a rock, following a path that led to the top of where Father's quarters were, a flat area above the dwellings. It was the perfect spot for a romantic picnic with your new lover. Nobody in the square below could see them if they stayed away from the edge. They were maybe fifty feet above me. I aimed my spotting scope, measuring distance. The measuring lines in my scope gave me a range of about eight hundred meters, elevation of about three hundred milliradians. Not a hard shot for me, but not easy either since I hadn't fired my rifle here yet.

Sabine and Yaretzi walked out onto the platform, and Sabine spread out the blanket. She sat down, and I could not see her anymore. Yaretzi walked out to the edge, eating something, observing those below. She turned her head, turned round, walked away from me, sat down. I never saw what happened, and I am glad.

 
I had to look away, and I turned my scope to the people in the square. Everybody was going about their business as if nothing was happening. Farmers coming back from the fields, carrying sacks of corn and tools. Women spinning wool, weaving, knitting. Of course, the warriors were out training for goodness only knows what battle Slate had planned for them. A little way away from the citizens, Father was working. Brenda was on guard as usual. Tonight, she would visit me and I could tell her.

 
I looked up again, and what I saw made me sick to my stomach. Sabine and Yaretzi were standing opposite each other, naked as far as I could see. Sabine was holding her, kissing her. After a while, she gave Yaretzi her dress back, and went looking for her own clothes. I closed my eyes for a few moments, shaking with anger. I thought of my rifle, but I couldn't simply shoot Sabine. Not even now. I had quiet lighter loads, but they were no good at this range. My high-velocity rounds would be heard throughout the whole of the cavern. In an echoing cave, they would not hear where I was, but they would hear I was there, which was equally bad.

I turned my scope back up to the ledge.

The scene had changed. Sabine had Yaretzi by her dress and was shaking her, shouting into her face. I couldn't see Yaretzi's face, but what she said clearly didn't satisfy Sabine. She punched Yaretzi in the chest. I knew from bitter experience how hard Sabine hit, hard enough to have broken Yaretzi's ribs. Yaretzi fell to her knees, but Sabine grabbed her and pulled her back to her feet, shouting at her again.

I dropped my scope onto my pack and picked up my rifle. I set the distance to eight hundred meters, aimed, compensated for elevation. In my crosshairs, Sabine punched Yaretzi again. Repeatedly. Methodically. Yaretzi was in front of Sabine, with her back to me. I could not shoot Sabine without hitting Yaretzi. My breath quickened, and I had to force myself to slow down. I had to wait for the opportunity. Wait for Yaretzi to faint from the pain and fall down. As I fought to get my heartbeat back under control, Sabine let go of Yaretzi, and she fell to her knees, looking up at her, pleading with her. My crosshairs weaved over Sabine and Yaretzi. It took me a few breaths to steady myself.

Before I could take proper aim, Sabine took a step back.

She leapt forward.

She kicked Yaretzi in the chest, and sent her flying over the edge.

I could faintly hear her scream until it stopped abruptly as she hit the ground in the square.

As I looked up again, Sabine was on the move, running down the path. A military sniper, trained to be indifferent to suffering and death, would have picked her off, but no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't. I could not hold my rifle steady. I would have missed.

I sat down with my rifle in my lap, back to the wall, and wanted to scream, but couldn't.

 

---

 
That evening, Carl visited me bringing food and news. He took one look at me, dropped the bag to the floor, put his arms round me. I rested my head on his broad shoulder, quietly let my tears flow. Carl knows when to keep his mouth shut, an underappreciated skill in older brothers. He gently stroked my hair, waited for his stupid little sister to come to her senses.

"She's dead, Carl." I looked up at him. "One of Chipahua's friends. Her name was Yaretzi. Sabine killed her."

"Why?"

"She must have known something about me, and let it slip. And then Sabine beat it all out of her, and..." I ran my hand over my eyes. "Threw her off the cliff."

"Oh no," said Carl. "Poor girl."

"I will kill her, Carl." I looked into his eyes. "I should have killed her as soon as I saw her, and now she has destroyed another innocent life. I will not allow that to go on."

"My sister, at this rate, you will need an entire magazine of monogrammed bullets."

"So be it. Sabine may be coming for Chipahua next, and she can lead her here. I need to talk to Brenda, so she can protect her."

"There are more people who can protect your friend. We now have two dozen of the Per Nocta in the cave. They are ready for a fight, and they are armed to the teeth. They have Riley under guard. Their plan is to sneak in under cover of night and kill Slate and his minions in their beds."

"What? When?"

"Tomorrow after they talk to their friends in Caracas. They have a Hermes device with them. As soon as they hear from their leader, they will attack."

"That will not help Father's plans, Carl. I could have shot Slate a hundred times from here. They don't need outsiders to remove Slate. Black or white, doesn't matter. They need to do it themselves. That's what Father planned."

"I tried to tell them, and they were very polite about it. They will carry on regardless. More of them than there are of us."

Carl turned round, picked up the bag of food, gave it to me. "This should last you for a few days. Move, Alex. It's no longer safe here."

"I will, after I talk to Brenda. She'll be here in an hour or two. I can wait that long."

"I wouldn't if I were you. But you must do what you think is best." He put his hand on my hair, kissed the top of my head. "It's not like I can stop you."

I gave Carl a wry smile. "Not since you told me about the pixies in the back of the garden, dear brother of mine."

Carl laughed. "Did you ever catch one?"

"I did." I put my arms round Carl. "But I had to let it go. The little rascal never came back with my gold coins."

 

---

 
Three hours had passed, and still Brenda hadn't come. In itself, that wasn't unusual, but after today's events, it worried me. I pulled out my pistol and sat down in my corner, safety on, round in the chamber. The night outside was quiet. Nothing but the sound of the rain. It was impossible for me to sleep. Every time my eyes closed, Yaretzi fell to her death again. Still, I must have dozed off, because night turned to day without me noticing. I woke up at a noise at the door. Someone was trying to open it. Someone small. Not Brenda. She would have pushed the door and the table back. Not a few of the Ocelomeh, who would have sent the whole table flying. Someone banged on the door, shouted at me.

"Alexandra!"

I recognised the frightened voice of Chipahua. What was she doing here? Was this some trick to keep me from opening fire? The table slowly moved back and I aimed my pistol at the door, ready for anything. The door opened on a crack and Chipahua's small brown hand came through. She was ramming her shoulder into the door as hard as she could. I stood up on stiff legs. I kept my pistol trained on the door and pulled at the heavy wooden table. The door opened far enough for Chipahua to squeeze through. She ignored my pistol, as if she didn't even know what it was. She ran into me, wrapped her arms round me, face pressed to my shoulder.

I looked at the door, but nobody else was there. I holstered my pistol, held Chipahua in my arms tightly, my cheek pressed against her black hair. Her eyes, screwed shut in anguish, now opened to me.

"Meurtre!"

"I know my darling. I am so sorry about Yaretzi. I could not help her. I swear to you, Sabine will pay."

"Not Yaretzi. Your... The Alchemist! Your father. Il va mourir. Viens avec moi."

"Father?" It took me a moment before I could speak. "What has happened to him?"

"I... I poisoned him but I tried... Please forgive me. Alexandra, please. He asks for you. He asked me to take you to him. Viens avec moi. Je t'en prie."

I looked into Chipahua's eyes. She was scared out of her wits, struck dumb with grief. Coming here was clearly not her own idea. But whose was it? Father? Slate? Someone else's? If I followed her, she could easily put me in Slate's hands. I took a decision. I picked up my rifle, hid my supplies.

"Show me the way," I said.

Philip Tennant: The passing of the Alchemist

A plague of Tennants - Five days of suffering - The fall of Yaretzi - Breakfast is served - Hours are numbered - Light the fuse - The task of Alexandra Tennant - Through the Night, towards the Light

 

HAZARDOUS AREAS ARE OFF-LIMITS Rina Prescott reporting

 

We have surely all seen the pamphlets on notice boards all over the school. The High Energy Alchemy building and the Bell Tower are off-limits to anyone, except for Alchemy students following the high-energy courses and students of the Electromagnetic Sciences. These areas have been designated Hazardous Areas because of toxic or explosive chemicals in use. This is not an encroachment on your personal freedom, but part of the effort to create a safe environment for all students and faculty. Surely, we do not wish our doctorates to be awarded posthumously. Those who seek to enter these areas should apply to Prof. Lowe of Alchemy, or to Prof. Sparker of Applied Physics. Though why anyone would wish to run the risk of ingesting poisonous substances or being turned into a frog, is beyond the understanding of this reporter.

 
Parker. His name is Clifford Parker. -- LD

Oh shoot. Can we fix this before press? -- RP

Yes, luckily I spotted it after the first two front pages. Fixed it and restarted. -- LD

Also, can you please cut it out with the "Eye of Newt" jokes? - CStJ

Oh God, I'm sorry Carrie! I forgot you were in there as well. Why, though? -- RP

It's an interesting subject. Complements my work with Mr. Parsons. And they helped me with extra batteries. -- CStJ

Look after yourself, will you? I don't trust those boys. -- RP

Ribbit. -- CStJ

 

---

 
And it came to pass that the Alchemist on his leg-and-a-half was once more summoned to the Eyrie of the Magister. I am sure Slate enjoyed the idea of me struggling up the stairs and then down again more than anything else. Slate greeted me sitting on the throne that had cost my friend Ichtacka his life, fingers steepled, looking at me over them with a dark eye.

"You have not been frank with me, Alchemist."

"Is there any reason why you expected me to be, Slate? Which particular subject interests you?"

Brenda stood herself off to the side at parade rest, hands behind her, feet apart, an expression of restful preparedness on her face. Jäger Heinz Ostwald moved next to her. She turned her eyes to him briefly to show she was aware of his presence, but otherwise didn't move.

"Your daughter." Slate scowled. "I know that she is not dead, and furthermore, she is hiding somewhere in this city, no doubt waiting for an opportunity to put a bullet through my head. What have you to say about this?"

"Is this your idea of a joke? As well you know, your henchmen shot down my airship, killing my son, his wife, their child, and lastly my daughter Alexandra. I told you when I came here."

"So you did. But now I have learnt to doubt your words." Slate gave me a villainous little smile. "But let's clear this up. Please tell me if you will, Captain. How exactly did your daughter die? Please be specific."

Brenda took a step forward. "Captain..."

"Heinz!" Slate pointed a finger at Brenda. "If she opens her mouth, kill her."

Ostwald drew his pistol and aimed it at Brenda's head. "Jawohl Magister."

"Captain? Tell me if you please."

I heard a soft voice in my ear. "Oh my love. What a pickle we find ourselves in. But you and I have played this game before."

"Itzel," I whispered.

"Alexandra," said Itzel. I had never heard Alexandra's name on Itzel's lips, and it sounded strange. "When we came down, she was in the front of our home. It was crushed to the ground, and her body was broken. She clung to life for five more days of agony, and then died in your arms."

I told Slate. He gave me a piercing look, waved away Ostwald.

"Captain Tennant, don't think you have convinced me. I will give you this one chance. Tell me where your daughter is, or anyone else who sailed with you, and I will spare her life."

"There is no one," I said. "They are all dead, save only Brenda and I."

"Then so be it. I will search for whoever you have hidden about this city, and when I find her, I will wring every last drop of blood and pain out of her, and you will bear witness to her every scream. And she will know that you could have prevented her suffering with a single word. Do you believe me?"

"Easily," I said. "After all, you murdered Quetzalcoatl Totec Tlamacazqui Ichtacka. The Gods do not look kindly upon such acts. More importantly, neither do the people of this City."

Slate scoffed. "Before I came to this City, the citizens spent their days murdering and eating each other. Death is the only language they will listen to, and if need be, I can give it to them."

As he spoke, Itzel walked round his chair, leaned her hands on the armrest, looked closely at his face. She turned to me.

"This man knows nothing of sacrifice, my love. He does not understand at all."

"Slate," I said. "You haven't a notion of what these people are like. I can forgive you that, because when I first came here, neither did I."

Itzel's smile took my breath away. "But you learnt much, my love."

"But I learnt a little," I said, not to Slate, but to Itzel.

 

---

 
I wasn't too proud to take Brenda's strong arm on the way down.

"I am sorry," I said. "I should have listened to you. I was busy, but that was no excuse."

"You guessed right, so it's all good."

"I didn't guess. Itzel told me."

"Captain?" She held up her hand. "How many fingers?"

"Three. Did I guess right?"

"Please don't go crumbling on me now, Captain. Things are about to get tactical."

"Brenda." I touched her heavily illustrated shoulder. "I am not going mad. But thank you for looking after me."

"That's what Shieldmaidening is all about."

I laughed. "Shieldmaiden Brenda Lee, I hereby promote you to Shieldmaiden First Class, for sterling services rendered."

"Oh wow. Do I outrank Alexandra now?"

"I'm afraid not. Nepotism rears its ugly head again."

"I knew it. I'm lucky to outrank Stranger."

"Nobody outranks a cat. They are divine beings."

 
I returned to my chambers, wondering what to do next. Electrolysis failed to rouse my enthusiasm. I wanted to warn Alexandra, but I had no way of doing that. Brenda came in, agitated.

"There's been an accident," she said. "One of the girls has fallen down the mountain."

"Oh no," I said. "Is she..."

"Got to be. Nobody survives a fall like that. Happened right in front of you know who's eyes. I should go ask her what she saw."

"Go." I stood up straight. "I'll see if I can distract your little shadow."

There was no such luck. As soon as we took one step outside, Ostwald was upon us.

"Where are you going, Kapitän?"

"There's been an accident," Brenda said, and ran off to the square.

I followed her to where a crowd had gathered round the sad little heap of humanity that had once walked these streets as Yaretzi.

"Make way!" Brenda pushed forward and knelt by the girl. One look was enough, and Brenda shook her head. "Landed on her head. Instant death."

During her fall, Yaretzi's dress had moved, showing her legs, thighs, the lower side of her chest. Brenda gently turned her onto her back, straightened her limbs, crossed her arms in front of her, pulled down her dress, closed her eyes, and she looked like a girl again. Brenda paused a moment and shot me a quick look.

"Anyone have a blanket? Or something?"

Tonalnan came up, took one look at Yaretzi, took off her woollen poncho and draped it over Yaretzi's body. Brenda stood up, looked up at the mountainside. She stepped up to me.

"Captain?" she whispered. "Did you see her chest?"

"I most certainly did not."

"Not her tits, dammit, her chest." She tapped her ribs. "The girl has bruises here."

"She fell off a mountain, Miss Lee."

"The floor doesn't punch you in the ribs, Captain. I've beaten up enough people to know. Someone hit her hard. I think she was pushed."

I looked at Yaretzi's body, back at Brenda. "Are you sure?"

"Affirmative."

"Then who pushed her?"

"Yaretzi!"

Sabine came running towards us, fell to her knees by the body. She pulled away the cover, pulled her close, looked at her mutilated face.

"No!" She looked round, desperate. "Please! Somebody help her!"

"She's dead, Sabine," said Brenda.

"No!" She stroked Yaretzi's hair, stared in very convincing horror at the blood on her fingers. "I only let her out of my sight for a moment!" She broke down in tears. "I am so sorry, my darling, so sorry."

Tonalnan bent down, her face inches from Sabine's. I couldn't catch what she said to her, but Sabine evidently got the gist, looked at the none-too-kind faces around her, and backed away. Tonalnan pulled the cover back over Yaretzi's face. A soldier came, picked up the lifeless body and carried it to Tonalnan's small infirmary.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sabine walk away. I touched Brenda's shoulder, pointed.

"Find out what she's up to. I'll go report to the Priesthood."

She nodded, abandoned all subtlety, and simply walked after Sabine, who told her in French to get lost. Luckily, Brenda's French is rudimentary, and she followed her regardless. I turned round and set off to Xiuhtecuhtli's chambers.

 

---

 
"I knew her." Xiuhtecuhtli closed his eyes briefly. "May Mictlantecuhtli meet her half way and guide her. She did not deserve this fate. You say she... fell?"

"No. Poor Yaretzi did not simply fall. She was thrown over the edge."

Xiuhtecuhtli gave me a dark piercing look. "Murder? Are you sure?"

"My warrior woman recognised the signs of violence on her body. They are different from the wounds of her fall."

Xiuhtecuhtli's fists shook. "Alchemist, I will ask Tonalnan if this is true. Not because I do not trust you or your warrior, but because we are all human and can be fooled by what we wish, or fear to be true. Ichtacka often reminded us of this. I will go to Yaotel and tell him what you have just told me. Wait here for us."

 
Yaotel and Xiuhtecuhtli came back half an hour later, with expressions like thunder on their faces. Yaotel wasted no time.

"Alchemist, Tonalnan agrees with your warrior woman. Yaretzi was beaten before she was murdered. Slate's woman was the last one to see her alive. Nobody else was with her. Maîtresse Sabine is the one who did this."

Xiuhtecuhtli slammed his fist on the table. "Enough! Enough of whispers in the dark. Enough of fearing to act. Yaretzi should have lived to see us old men crumble to ashes on our pyres, or joined the Gods themselves on a sacred journey. This will not be born. This will not be forgiven."

 

---

 
I was a fool. I should have known, should have realised. And now it is too late. My head is spinning, hurting. I have soiled myself. My tongue tastes like metal, and I cannot keep my hands from shaking.

I am dying.

I do not know how much time I have left, but it can be measured in hours, not days. I have sent all the people round me on errands. I will write down what happened to keep my mind from going to sleep.

 
Brenda came back late. Sabine had gone to see Slate. Brenda had tried to speak with Alexandra, but Ostwald had not let her out of his sight. Even if she had evaded him, that would have raised questions. We sat down to dinner, brought to us by Chipahua. Given what happened to her friend, she understandably looked like she could break out in tears at any time. Dinner today included meat, a rare treat. Most likely guinea pig. Next was a stack of tlaxcalli, and a bowl of the spicy mixture of tomatoes, beans, and chillies.

Chipahua looked at me, at Brenda, and with trembling hands dropped the bowl of meat before she could put it on the table. It shattered to pieces, splattered the contents over the floor. She clasped her hands together, bowed her head, exhausted herself in apologies. She ran out of the room to return a few moments later with a bucket to clean up. As she bent down over the mess, Stranger the cat came up, sniffed at the meat. Chipahua did something I would never have expected of her. Her hand shot out, grabbed Stranger by the scruff of his neck and threw him across the room with a surprised and angry yowl.

"Hey!" said Brenda.

Chipahua said nothing, but quickly mopped up the meat and sauce on the floor, then left us with a timid Xitlacua cualli, enjoy your meal.

Brenda picked up Stranger, who had come to complain, scratched him between the ears. "Something's wrong," she said. She got up and walked out of the room.

I never realised. Unwilling to let the meal go cold, I spooned a few scoops of sauce into a pancake, folded it up, started eating. I noticed nothing about the taste, drowned as it was in hot chillies and salt. How could I have known? I finished the entire pancake, and was about to have another when Brenda came back holding Chipahua by her arm. She pushed her into the room and Chipahua fell to her knees in front of me. She spoke too fast even for me to follow what she was saying. I told her to slow down.

"Maîtresse Sabine," she said. "She put... something in the meat. That's why I dropped it."

"They want us dead," Brenda said. "They don't love us no more."

I stared at the bowl on the table, back at Chipahua.

"Thank you, my dear." I touched her hair. "You saved our lives."

Brenda patted her shoulder. "Outstanding. Thanks, Chippy."

A sudden ache was in my head. The world was spinning. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them, Itzel was standing next to Chipahua, a worried look on her face.

"Captain?" said Brenda. "What's wrong?"

"My love," Itzel said. "You are dying."

 
Brenda pushed a chair into the back of my knees, and I sat down. She pushed a cup of water into my hand, and I drank. Chipahua had fallen to her knees, and was pleading with me in Nahuatl and French at the same time.

Brenda scowled. "Bitch must have poisoned all the dishes behind Chippy's back."

Chipahua shrunk at the tone of Brenda's voice. I put my hand on her shoulder, stroked her black hair. "I forgive you. It isn't your fault."

"Maîtresse Sabine knows about Alexandra."

"Alexandra?" I said. "How do you know her?"

Brenda gave a grunt. "Found her while wandering about the place. Chippy here let it slip to Fly-girl, who let it slip to Sabine, who beat the crap out of her till she told her everything, and then chucked her off the mountain to keep her from telling anyone else. I want to have a word with Sabine."

"That can wait." Wait? I tried to guess how much time I had left.

Itzel touched my cheek, and I felt it. "You will not see the sun rise again, my love."

There was one more thing I could do, and just enough time to do it.

"Brenda. Fetch Carl here. Hurry. If anyone tries to stop you, kill them."

Brenda nodded. "Understood."

I turned to Chipahua. "My dear, can you find Alexandra?"

She gave a small nod.

"Go to Yaotel or Xiuhtecuhtli, tell them to come here. Then find Alexandra, and bring her here. Don't let anyone see you. Can you do that?"

She nodded again, tried to speak, but I shushed her.

"You are a good girl. Now go."

 
She left, leaving me alone in my room. No. Not alone. Itzel was with me, smiling on me. To keep my mind from failing, I took out my notebook, and started to write down what happened, what I would do.

I will climb these stairs of death one more time.

I will confront Slate and his lackeys.

I will denounce him in front of all the people of this City.

Then, and only then, will I die.

 

---

 
I have only a little while left. I spoke with the Priests, and they will gather the people at the temple to witness. Carl came to me. He and his friends of the Per Nocta Ad Lucem will protect the people if needed, and storm the temple to purge it of Slate's presence.

Alexandra has the heaviest task in this cursed plan. When I stand at the top of the pyramid, and if Slate does not order my death there and then, she will end it with a single shot from her rifle.

"Father," she said. "Please. Don't ask this of me. I can't."

I looked into her beloved face, looked at the signs of so much suffering, with more to come.

"You must, Alexandra. I am dead already. This poison is not gentle. You will be doing me a kindness." I turned to my Captain's voice, commanding. "How hard is the shot. Tell me."

Alexandra's face hardened. "Range is three hundred meters from the top of the gates. No wind. Elevation not an issue. Suppressor on. Hand-loaded ammunition. High precision projectile. High humidity. I have shot one-inch groups under these conditions." She sighed. "Father. You should be in bed."

"If I go to bed now, I will never come out." I held her face in my hands. "Take the shot when I raise my right arm."

She closed her eyes a moment, looked at me steadily. "Use your left arm. Your right is a mess."

"Very well. Left arm."

I took her in both my arms. Neither of us spoke. We smiled at each other.

"Go."

She nodded. Turned round. Walked out of the door.

 
I am not alone. Itzel stands on my left hand, and on my right...

"Did you really think I would let you do this on your own, Philip?"

My wife Iris stands beside me, hand on my shoulder, as beautiful as the day I met her, shining in the dark.

I stand up.

I take a final look round this room.

 
Alexandra my daughter, Carl my son, Brenda best of Shieldmaidens, Fatin, mother of my grandchild.

I love you all as long as God gives me breath, and beyond.

 
Be strong. Fare well.

Brenda Lee: Hell to pay

Up the stairs - In the eyes of the People - How to beat down a revolt - Death by lightning - Tame the spirit of fire

 

CLIMBING THE STAIRS Linda Davenport reporting

 

The Clarion has reported before on the happenings in the High Energy Alchemy building, but since the last refits, what goes on in the University bell tower is a mystery. Luckily, Miss Carrie StJohn is a student of the Electrical Arts, has the permits to enter this place, and was kind enough to invite your reporter for a guided tour, with Prof. Parker's kind permission. The Clarion can reveal that the ground floor contains large urns of hydrochloric acid and lead. Since these chemicals can devour a reporter whole, staying away is eminently sensible. The first floor is the build area, where two of Mr. Parker's students were building new devices. Lots of metal wire, resistors, inductors, capacitors, vacuum tubes, and no eyes of newt, bat, or small creatures of any description. The next floor is home to a number of desks containing what are known as Hermes devices and Mercury devices, a world map with coloured pins in, a comfortable sofa for those late night monitoring sessions, and what appears to be a ship's wheel connected to a shaft running up the length of the tower. The next two floors contain only fresh supplies of luminiferous æther. Finally, we come to the "antenna room" where there is a strange copper construct that can be rotated from the first floor. One floor above that, of course, is the University Bell donated by Charles Algernon Parsons himself. Which the Clarion can report is loud this close up. What else Miss StJohn told the Clarion is sadly lost in the ringing of this reporter's ears.

 
Observing the Sparks in their natural habitat? -- RP

Didn't get to talk to the boys. Too busy. -- LD

Staring at you and Carrie? --RP

Too busy soldering. Honestly, I could have walked in there stark naked and they wouldn't have noticed. -- LD

Can confirm. I walk in there naked all the time. -- CStJ

 

---

 
I should have told that idiot Captain of mine not to touch any of the food. Now he's a living corpse. Oh, it gets worse. He's not happy simply to lie down and die, he's going to climb those goddamn stairs one more time, and then of all people Alexandra is going to shoot him. I tried to tell him how colossally stupid that was. Alexandra's head is messed up as it is, and now this? What makes him think he's even going to make it up that pyramid? When I was a lowly private, my sergeant always told me. Battlefields are littered with damn fool heroes. As a sergeant, I said the same thing then, and I said it now. The Old Man asked me if I had any better ideas. Of course, I didn't.

Typical. Just typical.

I walked with him along the hallway to the exit at the bottom of the stairs, and he could hardly stand on his feet.

"Wish I had a walking stick," he said.

"Hang on," I said. I ran back to our room, grabbed my macuahuitl, ran back. "Use this. You can hit people with it too."

"I'm sure there's a cricket law against fitting your bat with razors," he said.

He walked out into the square leaning on the thing. It seemed to work. We came to the bottom of the stairs, and he looked up, back at me.

"Damn it Captain, I won't let you do this all on your own. I'm coming up with you."

"I am not on my own. Itzel is on my left. Iris is on my right. They will carry me up if they have to." He gave me a little smile. "Go on. Check if I'm sane."

"Stark raving mad," I said. "You're good to go."

He leaned his weapon against his leg, put his arms round me, held me tight.

"Thank you for everything, my girl." He held my shoulders. "I'm promoting you to 'daughter.' You are at the same rank as Alexandra and Carl now. Now go make yourself useful, I know you will."

I honestly did not know what to say, so I just nodded. He took a breath, grabbed hold of the weapon he could hardly lift, let alone use, and started up the stairs.

 
I turned round at a large noise. Marching feet. Angry voices. As I watched, people started pouring out of every exit and marching towards the Temple. The crowd walked into me and I had to shove hard not to get pushed along with them. Ostwald came out of one of the barracks. He stood with his mouth hanging open for full ten seconds, said "Scheiße!," and ran back into the barracks. Within a minute, maybe fifty warriors came running out on the double with spears and macuahuitls. I looked in the direction of the secret tunnel, filled front to back with angry Per Nocta, armed with proper firearms, all itching to use them on anyone that stood between them and the Magister.

It was going to be a goddamn massacre!

Make yourself useful, the Old Man had said, so I ran to the nearest barracks to try and talk some sense into the Jaguars. As I ran in, the door opened and Tupoc came out. He asked me in Aztec what the hell was going on, and I answered him in English that he and his friends should stay the hell indoors. He tried to push past me, and I stepped in front of him.

"No! Ahmo! You'll die out there!"

He tried to push me out of the way again, but I was not in the mood and I shoved him back. He waved his arm, and asked what the hell? A stupid idea struck me. These people had been trained by Ostwald. Maybe...

"Du sollst hier bleiben!" Stay here.

Tupoc stared at me. "Warum?"

"Zu gefährlich draußen!"

Outstanding, Sergeant Dumbass! That was exactly the wrong thing to say. Tell a Marine or a Jaguar that it's too dangerous to go outside, and you can't keep him inside without chaining him to something.

"Ein Gefecht?"

My German isn't too bad, but not good enough to explain to a bloodthirsty warrior who knows maybe a hundred words, that there's people outside with guns who will wipe out his entire company for no good reason. Tupoc gave me an evil look. For years, he'd done nothing but train for war. Now there finally was a war, and this stupid little girl was telling him only the big boys could play.

Tupoc told me in Aztec to shove it up my ass, and turned round to get his buddies. Reason had failed me. Time for violence. I jumped him and put a good solid rear naked choke on him. If you don't know what that is, it's where you strangle someone from behind by wrapping your arm round his neck, closing his windpipe and the arteries going to the brain. Knocks them out in ten seconds, kills them in twenty to thirty. Timing is everything. I'm pretty good at it, and if I get the drop on you, you're going nowhere. Tupoc's face turned red, but his struggles were useless.

"Bitch," he said, and passed out.

What do you know?

He does speak English.

 

---

 
I dragged Tupoc into a corner, barred the barracks door to buy maybe a few minutes more time, and ran back outside. The Old Man was struggling up the stairs. Ostwald and his Flying Serpents were trying to push through, but there were at least a thousand people in the way, all shouting for Slate to come out. With the Captain half way up the stairs, Ostwald gave the order to attack. Some of the fighters hesitated, but once the first blood had been drawn, all of them joined in. Befehl ist Befehl. Orders are orders. Most of the civilians saw sense and got the hell out of there. The people who couldn't were struck down. I sprinted towards the Temple, even if there wasn't a blessed thing I could do.

I tried to make it to the bottom of the stairs, shoving people out of the way. I needed to get to the Captain before Ostwald's goons did. And then what, oh mighty Shieldmaiden? Chop down a whole bunch of heavily armed Aztecs with my pissy little knife? I knew that, and I didn't care. Pushing forward was a nice simple job, and once I was at the front, I'd figure out what next. I made it nowhere near in time. I put my foot on the first step at the same time the Captain reached the top. He looked over his shoulder, smiled at Alexandra, then turned towards the Temple.

I still don't know what he said. He was speaking Nahuatl. But by some trick of acoustics, his voice rose above all the noise, and without any warning, everybody stood still and was quiet. Climbing the stairs was easier now nobody moved, and I made it about half way up when Slate came out in his glittering robes. Next to him was Sabine. Ostwald made it to the top and stood on Slate's other side.

The Captain tried to raise his weapon, but Ostwald kicked it out of his hand and it came sliding down the stairs. In the silence, I could hear Slate's mocking tone, but I couldn't make out the words.

My Captain, Philip Tennant of the Airship Lady I, drew his last breath.

"Itzel! Iris! Carry me!"

He raised his arm.

The bullet struck him a fraction of a second before the shot echoed through the entire cave. He stood still for maybe a second, fell over, and came rolling down the stairs, came to rest at the feet of the people. For the space of three or four breaths, nothing happened. Then, there was a growing roar as all the people pushed up the stairs.

 
The Serpents made it to the top of the stairs first, turned round, and started to beat down anyone who came too close. The people who were pushed forward by the surging mass were shit out of luck. They say that macuahuitls are made to wound people, not kill them, so you can sacrifice them to the Gods later. That's a load of bull. They easily took off people's arms, even heads.

There was another shot and one of the Serpent's heads exploded in a spray of blood. Another followed, then another. Alexandra had told me she'd once shot someone two thousand yards out with a lot of luck. At a distance of only three hundred, she didn't need any luck. One by one, anyone holding a weapon died.

Sabine screamed. "Sniper!" She turned tail and ran into the temple, dragging Slate with her. Ostwald shouted an order and the Serpents dived in between the people. Alexandra stopped firing. She couldn't hit any of the Serpents without hitting innocent people. That meant she still cared, which I reckoned was good news.

On the stairs, in between the legs of all the people running up, and running down, and running in circles like headless chickens, there was a flash of blue. I pushed my way to where the Captain lay, grabbed him under his arms, and dragged him off to the side so he wouldn't get trampled. There was a big red stain on his chest, so I didn't need to check if he was breathing. I heaved him onto my shoulders, carried him to one of the big steps. I drew my blade and promised anyone who'd dare put a foot near him that they'd leave without it.

"Brenda!"

I looked up. Carl was leaping down the giant's steps towards me. Behind him were at least twenty of the Per Nocta, armed with knives and pistols. They had climbed up the other stairs straight to the top of the pyramid and now they attacked the Flying Serpents, who tried to retreat into the Temple.

A few of them made it inside.

The rest were not so lucky.

On the floor outside the temple doors were thin bars of steel. I'd never paid them much attention, but now the Serpents were driven back with their bare feet on top of them. There was an unearthly noise from inside the Temple, and anyone who stood on the metal bars screamed, collapsed.

Carl came down to me and wordlessly handed me a Mauser pistol. He took one look at his father, closed his eyes, and tore himself away.

"What's going on upstairs?"

We left the Captain lying where he was and climbed up. Carl took one look at the bodies on the floor, twitching like some grotesque dance. Carl emptied his magazine into the air, and shouted.

"Back! Lightning! Fire! Stay back!"

There was some movement in the Temple. Alexandra's bullet came buzzing past us into the door, and there was a scream. Shots were fired from inside, hitting nobody, but keeping people away from the entrance. Alexandra started firing again, and the shots from inside stopped. A deadly silence fell, broken only by the crackling noises from within, and the grisly noises coming from the bodies convulsing on the ground.

I caught Carl's eye. He was determined not to look down at his father, but only up at his enemies. He ejected the magazine from his pistol, loaded a new one.

"Ready?"

"Carl, don't be a damn fool. They can pick you off from inside soon as you show yourself."

The ground shook, and a cloud of dust came from within the temple.

"What the hell was that?" I said, always ready with the smart questions.

"An explosion," Carl said, always ready with the smart answers.

"Wanna bet your life they're all dead inside? I volunteer to stay here and keep watch."

"We still need to pass those damn lightning rods," said Carl. "Can't make the jump and land ready to fight."

"I say we spray bullets inside until the noise stops."

"Good plan," said Carl. "Ready?"

"Hold!"

A dark figure stood next to us, framed in the sunlight. A tall man with a long black beard, wearing a turban and a dark blue suit.

"Nazeem?" said Carl.

"Greetings, Carl Tennant. Nazeem is here. He will implore the Spirit of Fire to rest, and enter the Temple."

"It's lightning, Nazeem. Not fire."

"This is known to Nazeem," he said. "It is ruled by the same Spirit."

He stood up, and walked to the Temple entrance without a care in the world. He raised his arms to the side, bowed his head.

"Great Spirit of Fire," he chanted. "Grant your servant leave to pass into this place unhindered, that he may put to rest the unfortunate souls perished here today. This is the plea of Nazeem."

And with that, Nazeem walked past the twitching corpses, into the Temple.

It took a few minutes for the eldritch noises to stop. The dead Serpents stopped twitching, and Nazeem came out.

"It is done. Nazeem has stilled the Influence, and it is now safe for those to enter who are not connected to the Elements like Nazeem."

 
There was a commotion down in the square, and like one man, the Per Nocta turned round, aimed their weapons. At the foot of the stairs were two hundred men in orange, wielding macuahuitls. Tupoc was standing in front of them.

The Ocelomeh had arrived.

I jumped in front of the Per Nocta, forgetting for the moment that they might not care too much about shooting me.

"Stop! Hold fire! Don't shoot! Nicht schießen!"

"Ne tirez pas!" Carl shouted. They all turned to him and lowered their weapons. Oh sure. They listen to him but not to me? I bet it's because I'm a girl. Assholes.

All the way down, Tupoc and his friends walked up to the stairs. Tupoc took one look at the situation, turned round, shouted something in Aztec, and dropped his weapon on the floor. I'd have to ask the Captain what he was saying.

I closed my eyes.

"Brenda." Carl's hand was on my shoulder. "We're going inside."

 
I followed Carl inside. On the far side of the altar, there was a hole in the floor, with the sides fallen in. There was no trace of Slate, Sabine, Ostwald, or any of their friends. They were all gone.

Nazeem stood by one of the large earthenware pots of lightning. "These are the instruments of our enemies. Nazeem will see to their destruction now, so that this abomination may be purged from this sacred place."

"Wait!" said Carl. "Don't destroy them. We can use this to get our Lady up in the air. We only need help to transport it to Lady I."

"You are going to make me carry it, aren't you?" I said.

Godfrey Pike: Talking sense

Only a few questions - Clouds over the Wizard's tower - Reaching out over the Atlantic - Finally talking to each other

 

ACCIDENT AT THE SHOOTING RANGE Linda Davenport reporting

 

There was an accident at the Range today. One of the Archery Club members was pulling an arrow out of the target while talking to a fellow student. The arrow was deeply embedded in the target and took a considerable amount of strength to remove. It came loose unexpectedly, and before the student could stop himself, it hit someone who he was unaware was standing behind him. Luckily, it was the blunt end of the arrow, but still it pierced both clothes and skin, requiring medical attention. Archery Club instructors have warned about this, to be aware of your surroundings when removing arrows, illustrating that one moment's lack of attention can have severe consequences. We must never ever forget. Bows and arrows, like our rifles, are weapons of war, designed specifically to injure or kill living beings. While it may be tempting to scoff, nobody can allow themselves to become complacent. In the words of our founder Alexandra Tennant: Faith is not a virtue when handling weapons. Do not believe. Know.

 
Bloody idiots. -- LD

Did their fire marshal have his eyes closed or something? -- RP

Her. And it wasn't her fault. You are responsible for where your own weapons are pointing. -- LD

God, if that happened here, even Jocelyn would have had their hides before anything happened. -- RP

"Even" Jocelyn?! Five bullets penalty for you! -- JV

I *meant* that in the sense of: Even Jocelyn, the kindest, most patient of all fire marshals, would have been upset at such blatant disregard of Rifle Club regulations. -- RP

Good. Five bullets bonus for sucking up to the FM. -- JV

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
Thank you for the copy of our Mr. Khouri's letter. It is good to see that he is making progress, and that the Moghadam family are receptive to the idea that if she had not eloped with Ms. Sabine Moreau, she would be alive today.

I am less thrilled that Mr. Bouzid Moghadam still thinks we were telling porkies when we said we did not know the whereabouts of the Tennant Family. We only found that out recently. But in the end, I suppose that doesn't matter. What is important, is that we only know they are still alive from an intercepted message from the nebulous Order of Cross and Moon. We have no way of getting information to them.

We do know they are in the City of Anctapolepl. We have triangulated its position to within a radius of about two hundred miles, which is impressive given they are on the other end of the world. The students who achieved this demand to be paid in chocolate chip biscuits. We have been warned, by the mysterious Fakir or Wizard Nazeem, not to go there. He has not told us why. Maybe he wants to keep it to himself as a vacation spot. Please find attached a map with the approximate place marked out in case you wish to ignore the Advice of Nazeem.

Having said that, we have not received any messages from the Order for a while. I don't know why they are suddenly so quiet. We will keep our ears to the ground and our aerials in the skies, and tell you the moment we hear any news.

Alternatively, you may want to construct your own receiving device. I am sure if I ask Sparker, he will be happy to provide you with the proper schematics, rituals, and incantations. The world is changing, Winston. We need to keep up. Semper Excelsior!

 
Yours,

Pike

 

---

 
Jocelyn came to visit me this afternoon, waving paperwork for her entry into the Secret Service Introductory Course. She looks excited. Happy. She will do well. She will be the best in her class. She will make a good, no an exceptional agent. The best agent in my class was betrayed by one of our informers who never spent a single moment inside the Service's classrooms. It took us three months to find his body in a shallow grave in the desert. I kept that, and my feelings, to myself. She walked out of the door with a spring in her step and I could allow my smile to fade. I looked at my bottle of eighteen-year-old Ardbeg, at my clock. Too early. I needed something else to cheer me up.

I find my visits to the Wizard's Tower always strangely uplifting. The smell of battery chemicals and ozone, the feeling of invisible tendrils of thought spanning the entire world, and lastly that I am too old for any of this to have any noticeable effect on my work. Professor Parker has organised. There is now a small shed next to the Tower with a steam engine, though what for I don't know. The ground floor is dedicated to massive earthenware urns of electricity. Signs warn you to keep out on pain of death and a twenty-pound fine. The first floor holds the building area where the future is being made from bits of wire, lights, and little vacuum bottles. The second floor has all the spy equipment, with thick strands of wire leading up to the roof where the aerial antennae are. Apart from the clock and the bell, I don't know what the tower's original purpose was. I must ask Wadcroft, he'll know.

I knocked on the second story door, opened it. Inside, Mr. Dankworth was working on the shaft for the rotary antenna with Mr Sallow who was on a ladder adjusting something at the top. Miss Carrie StJohn was sitting at one of the Hermes devices, rhythmically pressing a small lever on the table. It took me a moment to recognise the patterns as Morse code. I am no stranger to heliographs and Aldis lights. We used them to great effect in our North African campaigns.

Miss StJohn stopped tapping. After a little pause, one of the lights on the device started to flash, accompanied by a buzzing noise.

"Pardon me, Mr. Dankworth. I'm looking for Professor Parker. Is he here?"

"Up top with Sallow Sir," he said. "We're re-balancing the rotary so we can turn it faster and re-calibrating the directional indicator."

"Splendid," I said. It is always important to show an interest. People like talking about their work more than others like to listen to them. A patient ear does wonders. I turned to Miss StJohn. "And what are you doing dear?"

"Practicing my Morse code, Sir. With Miss Reid in Dublin."

Dankworth sneered. "Slagging us off to Rapunzel, more like."

"Oh come on Dank," Miss StJohn turned round in her chair. "You did order her picture from Prof Lowe didn't you? What were you going to use it for?"

"I ordered all the pictures of the Trinity lot." Mr. Dankworth pointed. "They're all on the map. Reid, Murphy, even Walton."

"But Eileen's picture is on top isn't it?"

"Oh come off it." Mr. Dankworth sounded weary.

"And where's my picture?"

"Don't need it," said Dankworth. "I can look at you any time I want." He turned back to his work. "Any time I want," he added under his breath.

One of the skills for a happy life is knowing the difference between your own problems and someone else's. I pointed up.

"Professor Parker is upstairs, then?"

 
I climbed the stairs to the top of the tower where I found Parker and Sallow reassembling and reconnecting the device that could tell us where our enemies were hiding. Mr. Sallow saw me, pointed. Parker looked up.

"P-pike. W-what brings you all the way up here?"

"Is there any news from our friends in the West?"

Parker shook his head. "Not a sausage. No messages, not even a carrier wave." He pointed at the Thing. "That's w-why we are doing this now. We've been p-putting it off."

"Hasn't that affected your measurements?"

"Not the p-precision, just the speed. W-we have taken out the crank and p-put in a simple handle and a p-precision wheel. Should be as fast as Miss Reid now."

"Rapunzel," I said.

"Yes."

I had to ask, couldn't help myself. Being nosy is an occupational trait for a spy. "How is Miss StJohn doing?"

"She is advancing w-well in her Morse Code. Her building skills are useful. She suggested the changes to the rotary shaft."

"So fitting in well?" I said, poking maybe at a sore spot.

A bright bell chimed three times.

"P-put your fingers in your ears, P-pike." Parker and Sallow both did.

"What? Why?"

"Do it!"

There was a click and a running mechanism above me. I was just quick enough to cover my ears when the bell struck. The sound resonated in my chest. I looked at Parker, who dropped his hands.

"W-we p-put that bell in," he said.

"Good Lord, can't you just turn the bell off?"

Sallow sneered. "Not allowed, Sir. We do that, and everybody stays in the class they're in. For bloody ever."

"Right," said Parker. "Fifty minutes to the next bell. Let's get on with it." He walked to the speaking tube in the wall and blew into it. A few moments later, the voice of Mr. Fernsby came out.

"Sir?"

"Are you done down there?"

"Yes Sir. All fastened and connected."

"Very well. Due North please, Mr. Fernsby. Mind your head Pike."

I looked up and ducked just in time as the aerial swung round, sharp copper rods just missing my head. The electric spy business is a dangerous one. The Wizard of Lightning, of course, was not concerned at all. He looked at the aerial and a mark on the wall to the exact north.

"Two degrees East please, Mr. Fernsby." The aerial moved a minute amount. "Half a degree back please... Good. Fix it like that."

Fernsby's tinny voice came out of the tube. "Fixed Sir."

"Very well. Due South, please."

The aerial came round again, and I ducked without having to be told. Wizard's apprentices get one warning. If they don't heed it, a career in Electrics was not meant to be. The aerial ended up pointing exactly at the South mark, and Parker nodded, satisfied. We walked down the stairs and into the Hermes room. Miss StJohn had left, and Dankworth had taken her place, tapping away at the key. I listened.

...BEING A RIGHT PAIN IN THE ARSE...

I stopped listening. Arguably the most advanced technology in the world today was being used to act out a cheap University drama. Parker led me to the map on the wall, pulled out a logbook.

"Last P-Prometheus message two days ago. Gibberish as usual, sent it to the cryptography lot. It'll be another filler message."

A bell rung out once, and everyone looked at a compass rose on the wall.

"West," said Dankworth. He jumped to the rotary shaft and turned it, finely adjusted it looking at the green eye that indicated the strength of the signal.

"It's the Nidis one," said Sallow. "Hang on. Did we mess up the indicator?"

The buzzer of the Dublin device sounded.

DUB, REID. HERMES PULSE AZ 241 FREQ NIDIS MESSAGE RECORDED BUT ENCRYPTED. HAS NIDIS MOVED NORTH? RAPUNZEL.

Sparker and his lads looked at each other. Fernsby walked up to the map, drew the lines according to their own measurement and Miss Reid's. A few minutes later, a message arrived from Mr. Yagi in Edinburgh. Mr. Dankworth relayed the information to the others for their administration.

"What's happening?" I said.

Parker scratched his head. "The Nidis Aquilarum has upped sticks and moved. They're about five hundred miles away from where they were."

 

---

 
I walked over to Adleman's cryptography lot bearing the paper strips of utter gibberish that came rolling out of the Hermes devices. He accepted them, and made ready to copy them out and distribute them among his undergrad serfs who would count all the letters and see if they might unscramble them. Adleman looked slightly despondent.

"They have switched up their encryption methods, Pike. It may well prove to be unbreakable."

"What even to you?" I said, encouraging him with flattery.

"Unbreakable to anyone. I believe they are using a one-time pad." He looked at my vacant stare. "You remember how they encrypt every letter with a different part of the key?"

"Yes."

"We can look for repetitions at regular intervals, figure out how long the key is, and then break the cyphertext into smaller pieces that you can then do frequency analyses on to find what letter is which."

"Yes. What is the problem?"

"Well, to break a Vigenère cipher, you need a longer message the longer the key is. A one-time pad is a key of infinite length. An unending string of random numbers. So no matter how long the message is, it will never repeat, which defeats our analysis. Perfect secrecy. We have no more information with the cipher text than we have without it."

"Hmm..." I rubbed my chin. "There is nothing to be done, then?"

"We would need a copy of the one-time pad. A dictionary size list of numbers. Other than that, we can only hope the random key is not as random as people think. Generating truly random strings is not easy."

This didn't ring true to me. "Surely, I can just sit down with a couple of dice, a stack of paper, and a stiff drink?"

"Certainly. As long as you don't just add up the dice on each throw. If you do, you will get a normal distribution, not a uniform one. But even then, all your dice need to be perfectly fair. Your best bet is still to find our adversaries' one-time pad. I'm afraid it's over to you adventurous types again."

"Wonderful," I said. "Don't give up yet. We'll see what we can find."

 
It was about time for lunch, and I walked to my chambers to drop my things. On the way back, I ran into Professor McGee who was also on her way to the trough.

"Ma'am," I said, putting on my charming airs. "Would you do me the honour of joining me? I hear they serve cottage pie in the faculty room today."

"Oh I never eat there." said Lutitia. "I'm heading for the Mensa."

"The Mensa?" I said. "They do unethical experiments there to see what kind of food the student body can withstand."

"The students are the reason why I eat there. In one lunch hour, I can pick up enough data for a whole thesis on human interaction."

We walked into the Mensa, picked up a tray, signed the waivers, and were provided with a hearty plate of turkey, chips, and baked beans, with a small paper cup of tea. We picked a table off to the side. Lutitia quietly nodded at a group of students sitting near.

"Do you know them?"

"As a matter of fact I do. Sparker's lot."

She nodded. "Low status group. Obscure subject. Unpopular boys huddling together for safety. Except there's a new element."

"Miss Carrie StJohn. Founding member of the Rifle Club. One of our better shots. She was expected to join us in the Folkestone rifle tournament, but she broke her wrist."

"Yes." Lutitia grinned. "Do you notice how she's sitting off to the side? The boys are sitting together, and she's there as well."

"She is tolerated rather than welcome."

"Exactly. But she didn't use to be. The boys were happy to have her before. It's only in the last few days that the relations have cooled slightly."

"Really?" I said. "Why? She is a nice girl."

"That's what I'm trying to find out." Lutitia glanced at Carrie. "This is not a girl who is used to being spurned, let me tell you. But she's changed her subject to Electro Magnetical Sciences, and you can't change on a whim because you don't like your fellow students anymore. She's stuck for now."

"Do you know why she is with the Sparks in the first place?"

"Margaret told me. She had had some disappointing results on one of her experiments, and the boys helped her with a spare jug of lightning."

I had to smile. "They saw a damsel in distress, and leapt to her aid. No doubt hoping she'd grant them a Boon."

"That's what I thought. A few days ago, she was as charming as she knows how to be. But not anymore." She smiled. "It's a mystery. I love mysteries."

"Which is why you eat here," I said, poking at the food. "Is this animal, vegetable, or mineral?"

Lutitia cut off a piece, tasted it. "It is a substance not of this world."

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
Thank you for the copy of Mr. Khouri's letter. I have asked both Wadcroft and Enderby and both are perfectly agreeable to having a chat with Mr. Moghadam or one of his agents. Dr. Malcolm Munroe however is heartily sick of all these international politics going on in his peaceful University. May I suggest a meeting in one of Ipswich's nice taverns? I believe some of them may even have halal items on the menu.

Please inform Mr. Moghadam that we are still not in direct contact with the Tennant family. There is only one organisation who are, and that is the organisation only known to us as CLCAR and PNAL. We only know of their existence through intercepted messages on the luminiferous æther. Given that we cannot simply fly into South America, the only option left to us is to try and contact them by means of our University's Hermes device. With your leave, I will ask our Electrical Wizards to open polite conversations.

Wish me luck, Winston!

 
Yours,

Pike.

 

---

 
That evening, I was sitting on the second floor of the Bell Tower, as Miss Carrie StJohn patiently tapped out a message every ten minutes. I duly kept her supplied with cups of strong tea. The clock pointed at eight forty, and Carrie turned the device to transmit.

ALGERNON UNIVERSITY IPSWICH FOR CLCAR. RSVP. ALGERNON UNIVERSITY IPSWICH FOR CLCAR. RSVP.

Carrie reached out, turned the device to listen. There was no answer. She turned back to the complete works of William Shakespeare. Now and then she wrote in her notebook. I looked over her shoulder. She was reading 'Romeo and Juliet.'

"Keating is making us read all the dead poets," she said.

"Not my favourite subject either," I said. "Too much of the plot depends on people not being able to talk to each other. And then everybody dies."

Carrie sighed. "Truer words." She went back to her reading.

The clock pointed at ten to eight. I left Carrie to her reading and picked up the key myself. I turned the machine to Transmit and tapped out the message again. RSVP. French for Repondez S'il Vous Plait. Please answer. Please talk to us. I turned the device back to Receive and stood up to put the kettle on for a fresh pot of tea. As I turned away, a buzzing noise came from the Device and I turned back. Carrie leapt for the controls to the rotary aerial. I started to concentrate on the light.

...NIVERSITY IPSWICH THIS IS CLCAR. YOU CAN SEE US.

I put my hand on the key.

ALGERNON TO CLCAR. YES WE CAN. GREETINGS.

CLCAR TO ALGERNON. WHY ARE YOU CONTACTING US?

CLCAR WE HEARD YOU KNOW OF AIRSHIP LADY I. THEY ARE OUR FRIENDS. HAVE YOU NEWS?

There was a long pause. Carrie kept an eye on the indicator, waiting for CLCAR to start transmitting again, if they ever would. What reason would they have to believe us, what reason to give up their secrets? The buzzer sounded again.

ALGERNON REPORT CAPTAIN DECEASED CONDOLENCES. CARL ALEXANDRA BRENDA FATIN BEBE TENNANT ALIVE. LADY I REPAIRED AND FLYING.

Carrie took a breath. "Miss Tennant is alive!" She gave me a worried look. "Captain Philip is dead?"

I nodded. "God rest his soul." I tapped out another message.

CLCAR WHAT NEWS OF PROMETHEUS?

ALGERNON PROM NO LONGER IN CITY. LOCATION UNKNOWN.

CLCAR CAN YOU SEND WORD TO LADY I?

ALGERNON IMPOSSIBLE LADY I DEPARTED NORTH NO DESTINATION GIVEN.

I thought a moment.

CLCAR THANK YOU FOR THE NEWS. WILL RETURN FAVOUR WHEN WE CAN.

ALGERNON WE WILL LISTEN FOR YOU ON THIS FREQUENCY. CLCAR OUT.

 
I sat back in my chair for a few moments, appreciating the fact that I had just carried on a conversation with someone so far away that even the time of day was different where they were. In due course, reports came in from Dublin and Edinburgh. Carrie and I pulled the map board off the wall to record the latest measurements. Carrie pulled out one of the sheets the Sparks used to calculate the direction of the stations we had. An advanced piece of trigonometry. You can't simply draw straight lines even on a map with a Mercator projection that is designed to keep directions mostly true. Not at the distances we were working with. At greater distances, one needs to compensate for the distortions that arise from projecting a globe onto a cylinder. After some calculations, our three lines intersected on the north of South America. Carrie and I stared at the map.

"CLCAR," she said. "Where are you?"

"They must be in one of the cities," I said. "Maiquetia. Los Teques. Guarenas..."

We looked at each other.

"Caracas!" we said, both at the same time.

"CL CAR." Carrie said. "The CAR is Caracas. So what is the CL?"

I thought a moment. "Crucis et Lunem. Of the Cross and Moon. We were talking to the Ancient and Mystical Order of Cross and Moon! So that is how Master Nazeem appears all-knowing."

 
The door opened, and Mr. Dankworth came in with Mr. Fernsby.

"Guys!" Carrie grinned at them. "Professor Pike was talking to someone in Caracas! We know where they are and who they are!"

"Biscuit to you," said Mr. Dankworth.

"Miss Tennant is alive!"

"How do you know?"

"The people of the Cross and Moon told us."

"Who are they?"

"Um." I said.

This University is a place dedicated to gathering and sharing knowledge. The Secret Service is amenable to the gathering of information. Sharing it, however, is not similarly encouraged. The phrases Need To Know and Operational Secrecy are close to our dark and rotten hearts. They looked at me with large soft brown eyes.

"Well done," I said. What else could I do?

Carrie raised her arm. "See? I do more here than look pretty!"

"Eh?" Fernsby gave her a strange look.

"I have more to offer than..." Carrie sneered, tossed her hair back. "A little glamour."

"Wait a moment." Dankworth pointed at Carrie. "You're here because we helped you with your electric vehicle."

"Helping a woman in her hour of need," said Carrie. "It's the least I could do, you people being about as popular as a head cold."

The two Boys stared at her.

"You think you're..." Fernsby started, shook his head.

"You think we helped you because you look nice?" said Dankworth.

"Well yeah. Don't all boys? You don't even have to look very nice, and they're all over you."

"StJohn," Dankworth said. "You're an Electrician! Haven't you noticed how people here look at us? They call this place the Wizard's Tower. They think we're casting bloody spells here, like we're with Brassica's lot."

"What?" Carrie frowned. "Who says that?"

"All the real scientists," said Fernsby. "Everybody in this place. You're in the same boat as us, working with Parsons. We didn't help you because you have nice tits!"

Carrie closed her eyes a few moments. "You don't like girls."

"Girls don't like us," said Dankworth. "After the umpteenth time of being stood up, being dumped, being laughed at behind our backs, you sort of get the message."

Carrie looked at the boys. "What?"

Fernsby sighed. "I was sitting next to this girl in Enderby's Physics class. She was rubbish at Physics, so I help her with her equations, no the pressure increases with temperature kind of thing. And she's sitting closer and closer to me, and putting her hand on mine, and looking at me. Do I need to paint a picture?"

"She was being nice to you," said Carrie. "So what?"

"Bloody hell, StJohn. Being nice is saying 'Thank you' and smiling. We're talking open shirt buttons and hand on my... my..." He scowled. "So this girl passes her next exam, because I damn near carried her through it, and I ask her if she wants to go off grounds with me for a cup of tea somewhere. And she says yes."

"Great," said Carrie. "How'd that go? Didn't get to snog her? You know that takes time, don't you? Because we girls don't like to be called sluts."

"Oh she was snogging all right. I wasn't. Turns out she has a boyfriend. Who she completely forgot about while I was doing her bloody homework for her. And he is snogging her. Oh and all her friends are there too, having a great time. Everybody's having a great time."

"Look, maybe she was just being friendly, and you misunderstood."

"StJohn!" Dankworth said, with some heat. "Do you really think we can't tell the difference between being friendly and grateful, and damn near climbing into your lap? I was sitting behind them, and this was not just being nice."

"Are you sure?" said Carrie. "Are you really sure?"

Dankworth sneered. Carrie looked at Fernsby, who looked away quickly.

"Do you know that thing girls do?" Dankworth added. "Where you're walking by, and you look at her, and they go..." He snapped his head to the side. "Like you're about to reach under her bloody skirt or worse."

"Oh come on," Carrie said. "You're exaggerating. Some boys are just creeps."

Fernsby and Dankworth looked at her quietly. She turned her eyes away after a few moments.

"Stuff it," said Dankworth. "I'm not here to pick up a girl anyway. This is not the place for it." He pointed a hand at all the apparatus around him. "This is what I'm here for. Prof Sparker knows more about the electromagnetic spectrum than anyone in the world, and some day, I'll know more than he does. I'll take that over a steady supply of disappointment any day."

"Jesus," Carrie said. "You boys are a magnet for rotters, aren't you?"

"Not anymore," said Fernsby. "Look StJohn. We don't mind you being here. You know your stuff. That thing you did with the rotary shaft is brilliant. You take your fair share of turns monitoring. You're one of us. But..." He fell silent.

"But for Pete's sake stop trying it on with us," said Dankworth. "I already know you haven't a spark of interest. Please don't pretend you do, it really gets up my back."

"I wasn't..." Carrie looked from one boy to the other. She fell silent for a long moment. "I'm sorry," she said in a quiet voice. She shook her head. "You really need to meet some nice girls."

 
Well. It seems the answer to Lutitia's mystery was dropped into my lap. Maybe if I tell her all about it, she'll consent to having a small glass of Madeira with me in the Red Lion. Though of course, there's always the chance that I'll find her there with Wadcroft in her arms.

 

---

 
Dear Mr. Moghadam,

 
News has reached us that the Tennant Family have been sighted heading North through the Brazilian Jungles in their airship Lady I. What their destination is, we do not know.

We have had the sad news that Captain Philip Tennant has passed away. Carl Tennant being the eldest of his children, we must assume he is now Captain of Lady I. At this time we still have no means of sending word to them. Be assured, all who mean us well are looking out for them.

In the mean time, on behalf of the Chancellor of Algernon University, Dr. Malcolm Munroe, you or anyone you wish to entrust with the task, are cordially invited to come to Ipswich and discuss the matter with Professors Wadcroft and Enderby, or myself.

 
Yours sincerely,

Dr. Godfrey Pike.

 

Alexandra Tennant: Preparing to leave

Peace in Anctapolepl - A new dawn for the City - Back to our Lady - Up in the air - Unexpected company - Airship Aquila II - Kick in the knees - Life in Second Class - Taken to the bridge - A gift from Carl - Unchained

 

A SIGN OF LIFE FROM THE TENNANT FAMILY! Carrie StJohn reporting

 

My friends, we have word from South America! Through the miracle of electromagnetic communications, we now know that Miss Alexandra Tennant, her brother Carl, his wife Fatin, and their little boy Raage are alive and well, heading for North America after many adventures in the lost city of Anctapolepl. Regretfully, we must report that Captain Philip Tennant has passed away. We have no information on the circumstances, but I know you will all join us in offering his son, daughter, and family our deepest condolences. This report was made possible by the efforts of the Applied Physics department led by Dr. C. Parker. A remarkable feat of engineering, the George Bennett Array of detection devices were invaluable in detecting the transmissions. No doubt, Lady I will soon make her way back to Ipswich. So if you are in the Rifle Club, put in that practice or risk being Frowned Upon by our Founder.

 
Miss Davenport, with apologies, I must ask you to retract this. It contains tactical information that we don't want to fall into the hands of the Enemy. -- Dr. Pike.

What would you like redacted? -- LD

The whole article, I'm afraid. Be assured that I would not ask this of you without reason. Lives are at stake. -- Pike.

Can we at least print that the Tennants are alive? People are worried. -- LD

That has already been made public, so feel free. -- Pike

 

---

 
It is quiet, so quiet now.

 
The People of Anctapolepl went about the business of binding their wounds, laying out their dead, soothing their minds with song and ritual. Most of the dead were buried in a communal grave, side by side no matter which side they had been on in life.

As the preparations for the funeral were taking place, we moved out of our hiding place in the cenote. We went there to collect our things, only to find that that Riley was no longer there. Slate had rushed in with a half dozen of his minions, and Guillaume and Theodore had wisely chosen to run. Guillaume, a phenomenal runner, had lured them away from the less nimble Theodore, lost them, and come back. Theodore had told him to go and get help, and the silent Guillaume had made clear through a few choice hand gestures that if Theodore thought he was going to leave him alone with evildoers on the prowl, think again. People would come. Theodore had given him a hard stare, put him on report, and told him to go make tea.

The moment we entered the cenote, Brenda moved to the entrance and sat down facing out. I pulled out my pistol and sat down next to her while the rest of us broke camp. I recognised the expression on her face, a shield against the world.

"Hey."

She looked at me.

"These are not the people who go in for human sacrifice, you know?"

That got a little laugh out of her. "Maybe they'll make an exception for me. Look they've even got an altar." She glanced over her shoulder. "Maybe they haven't recognised me yet."

Before I could answer, one of the men came walking up to Brenda. It was Erik, the man with the disfigured face. He had a cup in his hands, which he carefully placed in front of her. He spoke a few slurred words in French.

"I think he says you were the one who brought him food and water in the Bad Place. Now he brings you tea."

Erik pointed at the cup of tea. Brenda picked it up, blew on it, took a small sip, stared at Erik's face.

"Mercy," she said, almost as if to herself.

Erik gave her a crooked grin, and Brenda hesitated, smiled back. He walked back to the fire and started to rinse out the tea things and stow them away.

"What the hell?"

"You gave them food and water. You carried me out of the Place Mauvaise. You watched over André Dupont. Your reputation is better than you think."

"Yeah right." Brenda stared at her teacup.

I reached out, touched her.

"They are not the same people anymore. And neither are you."

 
There was only one funeral pyre. Carl, Brenda, Fatin and I stood together. The warriors of the Per Nocta sang beautiful ancient hymns in an African language I had heard only once before. The ashes were put into urns and put in the Alchemist's chambers together with the one object that would not burn. The door was bricked up and marked.

The rains started. Warm, heavy, with the faint taste of silt.

 

---

 
There are many empty dwellings in the City. Carl, Brenda, Fatin, Raage, and I are in one. The men of the Per Nocta are good neighbours. They are not in the habit of throwing loud parties, nor do they have exotic pets from darkest Peru.

Carl has returned from an expedition to the Boreas crash site with one of the propellers and an undamaged hydrogen tank on a sled. Boreas propellers are larger than ours, and of a simpler construction. We may be able to adapt it for our use, but it will be a lot of work. No matter. We have nowhere we need to go. We have time.

Chipahua took me to meet her foster mother, named Centehua.

"Niltze, Centehua," I said, proud of my new found vocabulary.

Chipahua blushed and looked away. Centehua gave me a look. She spoke to her daughter. I couldn't catch a word except for the name of Yaretzi.

Chipahua's eyes opened wide. "Nantli!" She launched into a speech, pointing at me, at the school, up at the mountain. The only thing I could catch was "Maîtresse Sabine." I had to agree with her. Sabine Moreau and I are nothing alike.

"Hm," said Centehua, in Nahuatl. She pointed me at a chair and gave me a cup of a drink called Atole made of part water, part maize, flavoured with lime. Refreshing and almost like a meal in itself.

"Tlasohkamati," I said. Thank you.

With Chipahua translating between French and Nahuatl, Centehua told me how Chipahua's parents had been captured in a flower war between the City and a nearby village. Chipahua was only a year old at the time. Her eyes shone as she told me how her parents had been chosen specially to turn the tide on a succession of bad crops, and how plentiful the next harvest had been.

"Very good," was all I could say.

Different people. Different moralities. As a traveller and explorer, you get used to it, or give up exploring. I looked into Centehua's eyes. This city had not had any dealings with the outside world for decades. Possibly Centehua had made the story a little more interesting for her foster daughter. We finished our drinks, and I shook hands with Centehua.

"You have a wonderful daughter," I said, in English, so that Chipahua wouldn't understand and Centehua would, from the tone of my voice.

"Quois?" Chipahua looked from me to her mother and back.

"Rien," I said.

 
We had a meeting with Master Nazeem, the priests, Carl, and me. Nazeem spoke with the priests in Nahuatl. Of course he did. He was kind enough to translate for us lesser mortals. A good thing because the priests refused to speak any language to do with Magister Slate.

"Thus we are agreed," said Nazeem. "We of the Order of Cross and Moon will repair the damage done to the Temple, and restore it to its former glory, under the guidance of Tlamacazqui Totec Yaotel."

"What will happen to the City?" Carl said.

Yaotel spoke. Nazeem translated. "This City has been hidden away from the Outside for too long. Our hated enemies, the Conquistadores no longer even exist. We will turn our eyes away from inside, and out into the world around us. These are the words of Yaotel." He paused a moment to bow to him, and continued. "Nazeem has been permitted to offer the help of the Order of Cross and Moon, so that when the People are welcomed into the outside world, they will gain its benefits, and still preserve their own spirit, their own essence, their own identity. The heirs of the Alchemist will take up the unholy machinery from this place, and carry it far away on board the dirigible Lady I."

I looked at Carl. Carl looked back at me. It was impossible to deny. We were, ever so nicely, being asked to leave. But wasn't that always the plan?

"Very well," said Carl. "We will return to Lady I and commence our repairs."

 
"It seems Father's wishes have come true." Carl walked down the stairs.

"Have they?" Walking stairs didn't exactly hurt anymore, but it did draw attention to my knees. "We wanted to put their fate back into their own hands, and then leave. Does this Order want to do the same? Or will they stay and 'guide' the good people of Anctapolepl in the desired direction?"

Carl laughed. "I know of one or two Per Nocta warriors who may not want to leave."

"Oh?"

"Nor would the young ladies involved want them to."

"Good Lord." I reached the bottom of the stairs without a single misstep. "Now that I come to think of it, we may lose our Shieldmaiden to Tupoc of the Jaguars."

"Maybe we can offer her a promotion."

"Either that, or take a few of the Ocelomeh with us for her to play with."

 

---

 
"Gentlemen," said Carl.

"Messieurs," I said.

"Oquichtli," said Chipahua, as our Nahuatl translator.

"Meine Damen und Herren" said Brenda, adding to the linguistic diversity.

We were standing in the main room in the temple. Some of the stronger members of the Per Nocta and the Ocelomeh were with us. We had tied ropes round the electrical urns and attached poles to them so that two men could carry them with the poles on their shoulders. We had carefully sealed all the urns except the last. Carl picked up a piece of wood. Without a word, he dipped it in the urn, pulled it out again. It had turned black and smoke curled up to the roof.

"What you are carrying is not water. It is liquid fire. We must respect it."

Chipahua, Brenda, and I translated that in different languages. Carl put the lid on the urn, sealed it with extra clay, and for good measure tied it down.

"Be careful," he said.

"Soyez prudent," I added.

"Ma timocuitlahui," said Chipahua.

"Das beste Getränk für richtige Männer!"

"Brenda!"

The stronger members of our group picked up the urns and very very carefully carried them down the stairs. Fatin was waiting for us there with Raage in a sling on her back. All the surviving Tennants, Brenda included, would go out to Lady I. We would get her in the air again using Father's electrolysis apparatus, repair the broken propeller using the one taken from Boreas.

We walked out of the gates with the deadly cargo gently swinging on the ropes.

"Doesn't feel right," said Brenda.

"What doesn't?" said Carl.

"Going through the gates without blowing them to pieces first."

Marcel of the Per Nocta went first, then came the bearers, then came Carl and Brenda dragging the sled with the hydrogen tank, the propeller, and Slate's equipment on it. I brought up the rear with Chipahua, my rifle at the ready in case Slate and company felt moved to attack us. We made our way through the grain fields that fed the whole of the City. When we came to the edge, Chipahua stopped, looked over her shoulder.

"What's wrong?" I asked her.

She looked ahead, her face shining. "I have never been this far from home before."

I put my arm round her shoulders. "Something tells me you are going to go farther than anyone else in this city."

"Maybe I will fly in a dirigiable some day."

"I don't know," I said. "But I promise you, at least you will sleep in one two days from now."

The men carrying the urns were regularly swapped out for others. The African miners were singing as they walked, in the rhythm of their steps, and after a while we all took up the melody. Their deep voices instantly took me back to my imprisonment in the old Eagle's Nest in the Sudanese desert. My legs felt nothing. There was no real pain anymore, only a remaining undertone of fear. Memories that will never leave me as long as I live. I still could not run as fast as before, but I could walk. I simply walked, and tried to think only of the steps I was taking, humming along with the men, some of whom had suffered as I had. The world turned into a soothing green corridor of music and companionship.

 
By the evening of the first day, Chipahua was asleep on her feet, hardly looking where she was going. Fatin stepped up behind her.

"Kal?"

"Yes my love?"

"Wait a moment."

She took Chipahua's hand and put her on the sled, against her feeble protest. Brenda turned round and opened the bag over her shoulder. The head of Stranger the Cat came out, blinking against the light. Brenda picked him up and dropped him on Chipahua's lap.

"Don't let him get away," said Brenda. "He likes being scratched like this. Now you've started, if you stop, he'll cut you to pieces."

I looked at Stranger. His eyes were half closed. He was going nowhere. Brenda and Carl picked up the ropes and we moved on.

The sun set, we made camp, had dinner. We built shelters against the oncoming rain. I had first watch, together with Marcel. All round us were the soft noises of the jungle and people asleep. I got up and poured myself another cup of tea, held up the kettle to Marcel, but he shook his head. I sat down next to him, back to back, each of us covering a semi-circle of the world around us.

"Do you ever think back?" I said.

"Not as often."

"I can't remember some things anymore. Or maybe I don't want to try."

He was silent for a long time. Finally, he spoke without looking at me. "I had a wife when I was in the mine. I cannot see her face anymore in dreams."

"The Order of Cross and Moon went there. They buried them, and prayed over them."

"That is good."

I looked over my shoulder at his large form. "You have born much."

"No, I haven't." He turned round towards me. "Those things happened to Mwenye. Mwenye was the one who passed through the Night. The Order lit a fire for us to come towards, and when we could feel its warmth, Mwenye was put to rest. I buried him, and sang for him. He is now at peace, and I am a new man. My name is Marcel. I chose it. It is a name with a long history, but it is not the history of Mwenye anymore. I have not suffered. I was made strong through food, and prayer, and learning, and through my companions. I have felt no pain. I was never..." He looked away. "These lands are vast and beautiful. I take pleasure in every step I take here. The things I recognise from Mwenye's home far away. The things that are new. I now walk in the Light, and towards the greater Light still. The Order taught us this, and we are grateful."

"What will happen to the people in the City?"

"They too will walk towards the Light."

The rains started, and we pulled up our hoods.

"All their lives, they have been taught to offer blood sacrifices to their Gods. They believe, no they know that they must do this, or the crops will not grow, and the Sun will not rise. A death for... life."

"They do not die," Marcel said. "They only leave for the next life. And so the Sun rises one more day."

"We know why the sun rises," I said. "More than that, we know the sun doesn't rise. It is the Earth that is spinning, turning its different sides towards the Sun. We see it happen. They are wrong. So many people have died for nothing."

Marcel's hand was on my shoulder. "We also know. And now that we know, have people stopped dying for no good reason?"

I sat still for a few moments, shook my head.

"No."

"We are all on a journey," Marcel said. "Some of us have walked further. Some of us started further along the way. But we all walk through the night towards the Dawn."

 

---

 
We arrived at the table mountain of Windsor Gardens in the afternoon of the next day. I nudged Chipahua and pointed up.

"Do you want to climb up there?"

She turned her dark eyes towards me, quickly shook her head. "Ahmo."

I could have kicked myself. It was only a few days ago. I put my hands on her shoulders.

"You won't have to. We'll take you there. You'll be fine."

Brenda came walking up carrying a thin line that we would use to pull up a heavier cable, just in case our block-and-tackle construct had been eaten by wild animals or something.

"You going up first, Tennant?"

We looked at each other. I set my jaw. It was about time I got my arse in gear.

"All right," I said.

They call it 'Free-climbing.' Mostly because if you let go, you will be as free as a bird in the sky. I was good at it in the days before. Now, I found it hard going. I made my way up the five hundred feet of the table mountain slowly and carefully, now and then looking wistfully at handholds I could have reached easily if Hester Klemm hadn't messed up my legs. Don't look up and get discouraged. Don't look down and get scared. Look only at the next place to put your hands and feet. I lost all sense of time, until I swung my leg up onto the edge of the table and stood on the edge. A hundred yards away from me, Lady I stood on her landing wheels, securely attached to the mountain with her mooring lines, waiting for me. Inside were my fresh clothes, a treasured unopened tin of chocolate chip biscuits, and my dog-eared copy of "Wuthering Heights." I planned an evening of passionately hating Edgar and Heathcliff for the atrocities visited upon poor Catherine.

There were shouts from below and I came to myself. With a mighty heave, I moved out the A-frame and lowered the basket to the people waiting below. The cables were still in good shape, because we Tennants do not believe in buying cheap rubbish. The first to come up in the elevator were Fatin carrying Raage, and Chipahua who was clutching the side of the basket with a white-knuckled grip. Fatin and I gently pulled her hands away and lifted her onto safe ground. Fatin ran her fingers through her long dark hair and told her how brave she was. She took her by the hand and led her to Lady I to make tea for everyone.

More people came riding up on the elevator. Brenda with Tupoc, then Marcel and an Ocelomeh I didn't know. We started to hoist up all the things, first the metal hydrogen tank, then one by one the earthenware batteries. Carl checked all the ropes himself, he and Guillaume being the ones underneath if the thing should come plummeting down. The men up top pulled on the ropes and the dangerous cargo came rising up slowly and carefully. Slate's Hermes Device followed. Nobody had wanted to bring Slate's electric throne, and the wood was now likely warming up someone's dinner.

Under my and Brenda's directions, we stowed away all the equipment in the hold and made sure to lash it all tightly. We did not want the urns to start moving about in high winds. With all the equipment secure, we sat down to eat. Fatin and Chipahua had lit up the Aga and produced large pots of sauce and stacks of pancakes. Lady I had never been home to a company as diverse as this. We were speaking English, French, Nahuatl, the Per Nocta's African language, and of course the ever popular language of hands and feet.

The Per Nocta and the Ocelomeh found our practicing mats and stretched them out in the hold to sleep on. Chipahua joined me and Brenda in our cabin. While Brenda turned my desk back into a bed for the night, I walked into the Captain's cabin for some extra blankets for her. I stood still looking at the paintings of Mother and Lady Itzel, facing each other above the desk. I closed my eyes, turned round, and walked out of the cabin.

 

---

 
The next morning, we moved out two of the electrical urns, connected them to the electrolysis device, and connected the hydrogen side to Lady I's auxiliary pump with high pressure hoses. There is never any shortage of water in a rain forest, and soon gas started to flow into Boreas' salvaged hydrogen tank. It was clear that this would take a while. I soon tired of staring at the pressure gauge.

The Per Nocta and the Ocelomeh seemed to view this as a kind of working holiday and set out on a hunting expedition. I was sorely tempted to join them, but they moved much faster and I would only slow them down. They came back with a whole tapir and some capybaras. I showed them the use of our smoking hut and a few days later, we had a good stock of smoked meat that would keep good for months.

When we first arrived here, our concern was to make our Lady habitable. Now, we set out to make her airworthy. I fired up the engines, both Iris and Itzel, oiled them, and made sure they were in good working order. Carl and Brenda cut down Boreas' propeller to size. We rigged up a block and tackle on top of the port propeller pod and we all hoisted the propeller up where Carl could fasten it to the propeller shaft. It wasn't perfect. Lady I's own propellers had collective pitch control, where Boreas' didn't. This meant we could only control the thrust by making them spin faster and slower. But beggars can't be choosers and it was better than nothing. All our windscreens were broken. We had boarded up two of the windows, but we could hardly sail without seeing where we were going. It would be a cold job for whoever was at the helm.

All the while we were working, we kept an eye on the pressure gauge on the hydrogen tank. We kept our home-made impure lifting gas separate from that which we had brought ourselves. We would use it only to fill up two of the sacs. Hopefully, that would be enough to lift our home off the ground.

On the morning of the fifth day, we stood round the tank, tapped the pressure gauge, and decided we had enough. All of us together, we lifted the tank into the gangway between the cabins, and finally hoisted it up into the envelope. We pumped all the gas out of the for'ard and aft sacs, crossed our fingers, and refilled them from our new supply. I took Chipahua by her arm and led her to the bridge together with Fatin.

"Chipahua ma cherie? Regarde."

Fatin stood by one set of valves, I by the other.

We looked at each other.

We opened the valves.

We were greeted by the familiar hiss of gas through the pipes.

"Breathe in deep, Iris," said Fatin. "Breathe in deep, Itzel."

There was a scraping sound. We both held our breath.

Our Lady, named after my mother Iris, and after Lady Itzel of this city. rose up into the air, slowly, majestically. I played out the mooring lines till we were a hundred feet above the table mountain. Fatin and I grinned at each other. I held out my arms and she hugged me.

"Um." Chipahua was leaning out of the window, staring down. "Can we get down now?"

 

---

 
Take nothing but memories, leave nothing but footprints. As soon as we knew that Lady I would fly, we started to remove all of the evidence we had ever been there. The lookout post with its tent made out of tarpaulins, the smoking hut that had provided us with smoked tapir meat. All the little pieces of debris that you leave around a campsite. We said goodbye to all the members of the Per nocta and the Ocelomeh, and especially Chipahua, and lowered them down to the forest floor. We all got on board, and ran the extended pre-flight tests with our improvised propeller. We would be using only the starboard propeller to maneuver, but that was doable. You can be amazingly mobile even with only one leg. Brenda, Fatin, Carl, and I gathered on the bridge.

"Are we ready?" said Carl.

"Aye Captain," said Brenda.

"Aye Brother," I said.

"Yes my love," said Fatin.

"Mama," said Raage, but his opinion hardly counted.

"Right," said Carl. "Well then, Sister, keep her down, and Brenda and I will remove the mooring pegs."

Carl and Brenda picked up sledge hammers and stepped out. Through the open window, I could hear the clink of their hammers. After a while it stopped, and the mooring lines sagged. Fatin reeled them in while I stood by the hydrogen controls. We waited for the sound of them to come in, but nothing happened for at least five minutes. I looked at Fatin.

"I will go and see," she said.

The bridge door opened and Carl came walking in, with a frozen expression on his face and his hands in the air.

"Stay calm," he said.

"Yes. Please stay calm."

I took a short breath. I recognised that voice. Carl walked onto the bridge, followed by Brenda who also had her hands in the air.

Next came Nicholas Slate holding a revolver aimed at Carl, Ostwald with a pistol aimed at Brenda, and Sabine with an expression on her face of limitless sadistic joy.

"Bonjour mes amis," she said.

 
More of Slate's henchmen came walking in, and they shoved us down the steps from the helm to the observation deck. They searched us for weapons, but nobody had any. They pushed us towards the windows. Several guns were aimed at us. Sabine walked up to me and pushed her gun into my face.

"Do we need all of them, Magister?"

An uncanny calm came over me. I had experienced it in East Africa. It was a strange detachment from reality, almost as if all of this was happening to someone else.

"Do you remember what happened to the last person who did that, Sabine?"

She laughed in my face. "Oh please. Please try to snatch it from my hand. Boys? shoot her in the stomach when she does, I want her to die slowly."

"That will do, Sabine," said Slate. "Mr. Tennant? Captain Tennant, I should say. Congratulations on your promotion, but I'm afraid it won't last long. I am taking ownership of this vessel. You will be helmsman. Let me see, who else can fly this ship?"

Carl spoke a few words in the Ajuru language. Fatin started to answer, but Sabine sprang forward and struck her across the face hard enough to make her stagger back.

"If I hear one more word of that monkey language come out of your filthy mouth, I will take that little mongrel of yours, cut off its hands and feet and make you watch it bleed to death, compris?"

Fatin touched her lip. There was blood on her fingers. She nodded, wide eyed.

"Good."

"Yes, thank you Miss Moreau." Slate sounded irritated. "Now before we drift into something, please get my ship into the air. Mr. Tennant, please raise us to one thousand feet."

"And why should I do that?"

"Really?" Slate took a deep breath. "Do I have to explain what will happen to your loved ones if you disobey me? Sabine? A small demonstration please. Just a small one."

Sabine smiled, stepped behind Fatin, reached out and pulled her back by her hair. Carl raised his hands.

"No! No! I'll do it. Give me a second."

He ran to the controls, opened the valves, and Lady I rose into the sky.

"Very good. Now turn North. All ahead full."

Carl pulled the controls, and the propellers started to spin. Lady I picked up speed and Carl turned us to the North.

"Excellent," Slate said. "As long as you obey me, promptly and accurately, your beloved wife and child will come to no harm, and you will be treated well."

Sabine walked up and down in front of us.

"Magister? What shall we do with them?"

"Take the black woman to her cabin. She can be of use to us." He pointed at Brenda and me. "The other two... didn't they imprison you in some cargo hold or other? Take them there, and treat them as well as they treated you."

"Yes Magister." Sabine stopped in front of me. "We will chain them up in the hold." She touched my cheek. "We will give you all the morphia you need for the pain."

"What?"

Sabine took a step back, and before I could do anything, kicked my knee. I fell to the floor, screamed, kept screaming as I clutched my leg. Brenda sprang forward, but three guns were aimed at her and she had to back down. Sabine grabbed my hair and made me look up. I looked at her smile, and closed my eyes.

"Ostwald?" Slate pointed at us. "Take them away. Sabine? Take the black woman to her cabin. Do not hurt her without my specific order."

Ostwald bent down to me. "Aufstehen."

"I... I can't."

Brenda put her hand on my shoulder. "I'll carry her."

"Fortmachen."

Brenda grabbed my arm and pulled me over her shoulders. I gasped, my teeth bared. She carried me to the cargo hold, easily, steady. Ostwald saw the chains we had used for Sabine before. With him standing over us, Brenda fastened one loop round my ankle, one round her own. Ostwald pulled at the chains to see if they were tight enough, and I cried out in pain.

"Stay here." he turned round, walked out of the door. He slammed it shut and we were plunged into total darkness.

Brenda stirred. "Tennant? How is the leg?"

"That didn't exactly tickle." I took a few deep breaths. "I am good. That little bitch kicked me in the knee. If she'd kicked me in the thigh, she'd have broken my bone. But my knees are made of chromium steel. And now everybody thinks that I can't walk. Can't fight."

"Hah. Nice work, Tennant."

"They're going to kill us aren't they?"

"Yeah."

"I wonder why they haven't already."

Brenda leaned back against a crate. "Carl can fly this ship. So can you. So can Fatin, but Slate and his crew won't believe a little black girl can do that. Carl is the pilot. You are the backup so Carl ain't indispensable. You and Fatin are the hostages. Two so they can kill one of you and still have one left."

"Where does that leave you?"

"Me? I can just about keep this ship on course, but I couldn't land it to save my life. They couldn't trust me if they wanted. I'm good enough to kick each of their asses if they turn me loose."

I touched Brenda's shoulder in the dark. "You are the best fighter on board."

She shifted. My hand dropped away. "And still, the Captain is dead. I'm no use to the good guys, and a danger to the bad guys. Slate have any amount of sense, he'll kill me right now. Maybe he's keeping me around so I'll screw up again."

"Brenda?"

"What?" She sounded as if a volcano of anger was bubbling just underneath the surface.

"It's not your fault. We'll get through this. We'll get our home back. Don't give up."

 

---

 
Ostwald had not seen fit to leave a light on. We lost all sense of time in the dark. There was a sound at the door, and I shook Brenda awake before it opened. Fatin came in with a tray, a loaf of bread, and a jug of water. Sabine inspected our chains, which unfortunately were still as solid as they had been, and pressed down on my knee. I cried out.

"That hurts, doesn't it?"

"Please!" Fatin's voice was desperate, anguished. "Please stop."

Sabine ignored her, held up a cup of water. "Would you like some medicine?"

"Yes!"

She squatted in front of me, tipped a little bit of water out of the cup.

"Yes what?"

"Yes please!"

"Good girl." She gave me the cup and I gulped it down, tasting the bitter taste of morphia.

"How long does this take to take effect?"

Sabine pressed down on my knee again, with a little laugh. I managed to keep from screaming.

"Please Mistress." Fatin was in tears. "Please stop."

She turned to Fatin. "Where is your little boy?"

Fatin's lips trembled, and she said nothing.

"Where are you taking us?" Brenda said.

"Caracas," said Sabine. "This flying scrapheap needs some repairs before it is worthy of the name Aquila II." She aimed her pistol at Brenda's head. "And then we can take on a crew of our own and we won't need you anymore. I can't wait. Maybe I'll start early."

"You ain't got orders to kill me, and you can't take a goddamn shit without Slate's say-so. Get lost."

Sabine's laugh sounded happy. "I can always say that you tried something."

"Sure you could." Brenda scowled at her. "But then you'd have to explain to Slate how a chained-up girl could jump you. Remind me Sabine. What does Slate do with minions who disobey orders?"

"There's no hurry. Much of the pleasure is in the anticipation. The Magister says I can use as many bullets as I want for the both of you."

She stood up, pushed Fatin out of the door and slammed it shut.

I put down my cup. "Bitch short-changed me on the morphia."

 

---

 
Lady I continued northward, on her way towards Caracas where Slate could finally rid himself of us. The conditions in Second Class were squalid. We were not allowed to visit the head, and we didn't even have a bucket. Fatin brought us food and water, sometimes with Ostwald, sometimes with Sabine, who never failed to verify that I was still in the necessary amount of pain. Ostwald, with Prussian efficiency, simply had Fatin put down the food while he checked our chains. We had searched for any kind of tool or implement that could help us loosen the shackles, but found nothing. Asking Fatin was no use. She was terrified. I looked into her dark eyes, and raised my fist. Don't give up. She nodded. Ostwald looked at her, and she quickly turned her eyes away and stepped out of the door.

On the morning of the third day, something strange happened. There was a disturbingly loud noise coming from the port propeller, shaking the floor even in our cargo hold. Soon, I heard the engines spin down. Some time after that, our door opened and Ostwald came in. He took a pair of pliers from his pocket, and removed the chain from my ankle.

"Mitkommen," he said.

"I can't," I said. "Ich hab ein schlimmes Bein."

He gave a grunt, walked away, and came back a few minutes later with a crutch that had belonged to Father. He pulled me to my feet, and I stepped out of the door. I looked around. Four of the Flying Serpents were in the cargo hold, asleep. Against the for'ard bulkhead, I could see the Magister's Hermes device, lights blinking. I looked up at the stairs to the galley, but Ostwald gave me a push.

"Eyes forward, Fräulein Tennant. To the bridge."

Groaning in pain, I slowly made my way up the steps, then down the corridor past the engine rooms, and finally onto the bridge. Slate was there, as was Riley. Carl was at the wheel, looking almost as bad as I felt. His face was drawn and almost grey. He gave me a weary smile.

"Hello Sister."

"Carl! How long have you been at the helm?"

"I'm fine. I like it here."

Ostwald smacked me upside the head, looked at his hand, wiped it on his uniform. "Klappe halten. Magister?"

Slate turned round in the Captain's chair. "Thank you Heinz. Miss Tennant, it seems you will get your wish. You will relieve your brother at the wheel."

"I... I cannot stand up."

Slate got up , walked up the stairs, stood in front of me looking down.

"It's only for half an hour. We have a small problem with our port propeller. Carl will need to climb up on the propeller pod to fix it."

I turned pale. "You can't do that! Look at him! In the state he's in, he'll fall off!"

"I think we all hope he will not." Slate looked at the door for a moment. "Except perhaps Sabine, but on this occasion, her opinion does not matter. To the wheel, Alexandra. Mr. Tennant? Off you go. Heinz? Go with him and keep his feet from wandering."

"Jawohl, Magister."

Slate turned to me. "Carl told us that you need to be here to turn the propeller slowly. A task too subtle for any of us simpletons. You would think he doesn't trust us."

"So unreasonable," I said. "I assume he put the brake on?"

"See for yourself."

I limped to the controls. It was a good thing that the windows were broken and that the night was quiet at this altitude. From his place on top of the port propeller pod, Carl could shout directions at us, which I followed. Out away in the night, Carl tightened the bolts that held Boreas' propeller. After a heart-stopping thirty minutes, Carl had finished his work. A few minutes later, he came walking onto the bridge followed by Ostwald. I turned round, cried out, and nearly fell. He sprang forward, caught me in his arms. In that one moment, he pressed something small and metallic into my hand. I regained my footing, glared at Slate.

I clapped my hand in front of my mouth. "You cannot keep him going like this!"

Slate shrugged. "Who else would you suggest, Miss Tennant? Miss Lee? She may be tempted to use violence. Yourself? You can hardly stand. Maybe you can teach your Negro girl to hold a course."

"I can hold out for an hour or two. Give him some rest."

"Alex." Carl looked into my eyes. "I can hold on for a while longer. Go back to Brenda."

We looked at each other. I kissed his cheek.

"Be ready," I whispered.

 
Ostwald took me back to Second Class, chained me up, looked round the room, walked out.

"What's the sitrep," said Brenda.

"Carl is at the helm, but on his last legs. Four soldiers asleep in the hold. The rest I think are in the mess hall. Slate, Riley, and Ostwald are on the bridge." I grinned in the dark and pulled something from my mouth. "And I have a present from Carl."

Our chains were fastened round our ankles using the same kind of shackle you find on boats. They are shaped like the letter U and a pin goes between the ends of the U to close it. The pin is threaded on one end, and has an eye on the other. Normally, you use a key to tighten and loosen them, but Ostwald had not been considerate enough to give us one. Carl had given me a two inch galvanised steel nail. We put the nail in the eye of the shackle pin. With a little effort, it came loose.

Brenda listened at the door, heard nothing and opened it on a crack. Light streamed in from the hold. She looked over her shoulder.

"Nobody in the hold except the sleeping beauties. We need some weapons."

"There's two parangs in our cabin."

"Let's go." Brenda started to open the door, then turned back to me. "What's the ROE?"

"Rules of engagement?" I was not in the mood for subtleties. "If it's not Tennant, it's dead." I touched her shoulder. "Sister."

She gave me a little half-smile, opened the door.

 
We crept up the stairs, into the mess hall, and stood by the door to our cabin. There were... noises coming from inside, indicating that there were at least two people in there. Brenda looked at me, held up three fingers, two, one. I pulled open the door. In my bed was Sabine Moreau sitting on top of one of the Flying Serpents, fully naked. She looked round, but she was too late. Brenda stepped forward and with a straight hand chopped her in the neck. She went down like a towel put on its tip, and fell to the floor. I pulled my parang from its usual place hanging from the clothes peg and without another thought struck the man in the throat. He made a choking noise, died.

I looked at Sabine. "She dead?"

Brenda felt her pulse. "No."

"Let me help her with that," I said. I turned her onto her stomach, pulled her head up to cut her throat, changed my mind. I turned my eyes to Brenda. "No. I want her to look at me when I kill her."

"Christ Tennant. Efficiency over blood lust, remember?"

I found a piece of cord, tied her hands and feet together behind her back. I gave my parang to Brenda, took my second one from the drawer.

"Let's check on Fatin."

We knocked on her door, and she opened, looking at us with large eyes.

"You are..."

"We are good," I said. "You?"

Fatin nodded. "I am good. Raage is... better."

Brenda's eyes narrowed. "What happened to Raage?"

Fatin shook her head. "He is good now."

"Lock the door and hide," I said. "Don't open it unless it's us. Not for any reason."

She did, and we looked at each other.

"Now what?" said Brenda.

"Gun locker. Upstairs. We need weapons."

"Now you are talking."

Carl Tennant: Enemies you haven't killed yet

Caracas in sight - Messages through the skies - Falling down - The battle for Lady I - Into thin air - Fire around the world - Prisoner's dilemma - We have met the enemy - Unburdening - Homeward bound

 

FIRE AT WILL Linda Davenport reporting

 

Prof. Pike has notified us that the Algernon Rifle Club is once more accepting new members, of the second year and later. Boys and girls both can apply using the forms available at Reception. You will also need written permission from parents or guardians. In response to questions received by the Clarion, we can say the following: The weapons used are Home Guard surplus from the last War, including the SMLE, the Webley revolver, and two Browning sniper rifles kindly lent to us by a vague yet menacing government agency. Rifle Club regulations do not allow us to take weapons home with us, even for cleaning and maintenance. Fellow Rifle Club members are not permissible as targets. Non-members have to be approved, in writing, as targets by Prof. Pike. Approved targets at the time of writing include only inanimate objects. And Will. We all fire at Will. We hate Will.

 

---

 
I stood at the helm and looked at the clock. I had been on for thirty hours at a stretch, which I expect is both a new record and a violation of transport laws. My only break was a small outing onto the port propeller pod to tighten the bolts on our ill-gotten propeller. For all I cared, it could have fallen off, as it was a rubbish propeller anyway. It didn't provide even half the thrust of our nice variable-pitch starboard propeller. Lady I was flying with a pronounced limp. Not that I was in any hurry to arrive at our destination. Once we did, Slate would have no further need for us, and we would be let go. I hoped the job would go to Heinz Ostwald, who would at least be efficient about it, unlike Miss Sabine Moreau. It had been heart-wrenching to see my dear sister with a ruined leg again, putting a brave face on things. We would need to get her back to Algernon University. There was only one hope. I had given Alex the means to free Brenda. Could she defeat all of Slate's henchmen on her own? Not likely. She would need my help. My eyes closed, all by themselves, and I shook myself awake. The wind blew in my face, warm and humid, carrying the scents of the Brazilian rain forest. We were flying at only three thousand feet. In front of me, Slate turned round in my father's chair. My chair. He stood up and walked towards me.

"All stop. Turn to the south-east."

I was beyond wondering why, let alone arguing. I disengaged the propellers and turned the wheel, slowing down and turning at the same time. I heard the turbines speed up, their load gone. Slate opened the door to the rest of the ship.

"Keep an eye on him, Riley. I have a message to send."

"What do you think I've been doing all this time?"

Slate waved a hand at him. "Then continue to do so. I will be back soon."

The door slammed behind me. I silently counted to one hundred, then slumped over the wheel and fell to the ground.

"Tennant." I said nothing.

"Tennant! Get up. Don't make me fetch that woman of yours."

I quietly added that remark to the already long list of things for which there would be a Reckoning. Riley came walking up, pistol out. He stopped at a distance, and kicked my leg.

"Get your sorry ass off the ground, or I swear I'll drop your whole goddamn family down the hatch."

I didn't move an inch. Riley took a hold of my ankle and pulled. I didn't say a word, didn't make a move. There was a click as he cocked his revolver.

"Last chance, asshole. You don't move now, I'll get all those warriors to go Biblical on your wife's ass. And that goddamn sister of yours."

I managed to stay still. I felt his hand on my shoulder. He tried to turn me over, and I punched him in the face as hard as I could, grabbed his revolver with the other. It went off with a bang and sent a bullet into the corrugated iron floor. Riley fell down on top of me. I pushed him off, felt his pulse. I hadn't killed him with a single blow. I picked up the revolver, considered shooting him, but like most people with revolvers, he had loaded only five bullets, leaving the sixth chamber empty for safety. I had only four bullets left. I might need them.

 
I committed the unforgivable sin of leaving the helm unmanned, and aiming my revolver ahead of me, I walked into the hallway, past the engine rooms. I looked at the guest cabins, the door to the cargo hold, up at the ladder into the envelope. I needed weapons. I climbed up the ladder as quickly and quietly as I could. I opened the weapons cabinet, pulled out two Mauser pistols and extra ammunition. Brenda would need a weapon. I climbed down the ladder, looked around. I could hear noises in the cargo hold. Shouts. Fighting. I ran, kicked open the door. Inside, Brenda was attacking one of the Serpents with a knife, and... I could not believe my eyes! Alex was attacking another. There was no time to wonder. I shot the two other Serpents while Brenda stabbed the third, leaving only the last who was fighting Alex. He shoved her back, saw me, and came running at me screaming. I jumped to the side to get a clean shot, and put a bullet in his head.

I pulled out my second Mauser, gave it to Brenda. I looked at Alex.

"Um. I'm sorry. I didn't... um..."

"Bring enough for everyone? This is boarding school all over again."

"How is your..." I gestured vaguely.

"Knee? It's fine. Andrew's engineering skills are fabulous."

I gave her my pistol. "Here. You are a better shot."

She beamed at me, ejected the magazine to count the bullets, checked for brass in the chamber. "Thank you. You are the best brother I've ever had."

Brenda was in no mood for idle chatter. "What's the status?"

"Riley on the bridge, down but not dead. Slate out there somewhere." I gestured at the dead Serpents. "These guys are done. Don't know about Ostwald or Sabine."

"Another dead Serpent in our room, I think that's all of them. Sabine is out but not dead," said Brenda. She looked at Alex. "Yet. Your cute sister wants to savour the experience, sick puppy. Not seen Slate. Not seen Ostwald."

"Fatin," I said. "Raage. Are they..."

"In their room. Good now."

The room grew colder. "Good now?"

"I don't know what happened Tennant," said Brenda. "No visibility in Second Class."

I picked up Alex and Brenda's knives. "We search the ship from stern to prow."

"And no more pissing about," said Brenda "Shoot to kill. Ain't got no use for any of 'em alive."

"Agreed," said Alex.

 
With Brenda and Alex ready behind me, I opened the door to the mess hall. There was nobody. I walked straight to our cabin, rapped on the door with my knife.

"Fatin?" I said, in Ajuru. "It's me. Are you in there?"

There were some noises inside of things being moved, then the door opened and Fatin looked out, eyes wide open. I took one look at her and not a hundred of Slate's minions could have stopped me going inside and taking her into my arms. She held on to me as if her life depended on it. She sobbed into my shoulder. I stroked her hair, told her that everything was all right. I held her shoulders, looked at her.

"What happened?"

"Maîtresse Sabine... she... Raage."

"We have her," I said. "She can't hurt you anymore. Is Raage all right?"

She swallowed. "Yes."

"Tennant?" Brenda looked at us over her shoulder, pistol trained on the other doors. "We need to keep hunting."

"Right." I turned back to Fatin. "Lock the door, my love. Don't let anyone in. We are going hunting."

She kissed me. "Good hunting."

 
We moved through the ship slowly and methodically, locking doors as we went so that areas already searched would stay searched. First the library and study astern on the starboard side. It was empty, as was the galley. We opened the door to the Captain's cabin, and found it empty except that Slate had added a large panel of lights and controls in the bulkhead, no doubt connected to the Hermes Device. We locked all doors, and went into the cargo hold. Apart from the Feathered Serpent's bodies, there was nothing and nobody. We searched the storage areas. The bathrooms. Nothing. With Alex and Brenda ready on either side, I opened the door to the hallway that led to the guest cabins and exits. There was nobody. The cabins were empty. Keeping a wary eye on the stairs up, we moved towards the engine rooms. The engines were running, but nobody was inside. Finally, we crept towards the bridge. The door was open already, and nobody was there.

"Tennant," said Brenda. "Where's Riley?"

I swore. "Must have come to and buggered off."

"Buggered off where?" said Alex.

"We have searched the whole gondola," I said. "Only way left is up."

"I am not exactly looking forward to a gunfight in the envelope," Alex said.

"Depends on how desperate they are," said Brenda.

I held up my knives. "I'll go first."

As quiet as I knew how to, I climbed up into the envelope, carefully sticking my head up over the edge. No shots were fired to set the whole of Lady I ablaze. I crouched down and ran up and down the access corridors, but nobody was hiding there. Theoretically, they could have leapt onto the hydrogen sacs and slid down, but if they did that, they would never be able to climb back out again. Only one place left. The observation deck. Originally designed as a gun deck to defend from other airships attacking from above, we had converted it into a place where astronomers could set up their telescopes. I climbed up the ladder, and found the top hatch unlocked. You could only lock it from the inside, and we always, always locked it coming down. Having the hatch blow open in strong winds is not good. It was the only place left where Slate and his henchmen could hide. Alex handed me a broom, and I pushed the hatch up. Nothing happened. I gave it a good hard shove and slid down the ladder so Alex and Brenda could shoot whoever came down to murder me.

Nothing happened.

"My turn," said Brenda.

Out in the open, the danger of firearms setting us all alight was less. She climbed up, looked round, leapt out. Alex and I quickly followed her.

The observation deck was deserted.

"Poof," said Brenda. "In a cloud of smoke."

We spent a nervous hour or two patrolling every area of Lady I, but in the end it was inescapable. Slate and his minions were no longer on board. Only one person remained. The last thing I did before I fell into bed was to pick up Sabine Moreau, and toss her unceremoniously into the foul smelling cargo hold of Second Class. I felt Fatin's lips on mine, heard her gentle voice, and sank into Morpheus' arms.

 

---

 
I woke up after maybe four hours' sleep. I would have liked forty, but there is no rest for the righteous any more than the wicked. I dressed myself, walked out. I ran into Brenda in the cargo hold. She was mopping the floor. Alex was in the boiling room washing, possibly burning, her bedclothes. They had gathered up the dead, and dropped them down the bomb hatch into the forest.

I walked to the bridge. Fatin was at the helm, keeping our Lady on course towards Caracas. Raage was in his sling. Fatin was softly singing to him, and like so many times before, I was struck by the beauty of her singing voice. I touched her shoulder, she looked round to me and smiled. I stood behind her, put my arms round her, held her.

"I love you," I said.

She leaned her head back against my shoulder, rubbed her cheek against mine. Raage frowned, opened his eyes, saw me.

"Da," he said.

I ran my finger over his cheek.

"I know my boy. It won't happen again."

"Good," said Fatin.

I held her for just a few more moments. I had to ask even though I didn't want to.

"What happened?"

Fatin turned the wheel a few spokes to starboard. Our Lady was harder to steer than normal, and would be until we could repair her.

"I do not wish to say, Kal." Fatin said in Ajuru. "This woman. You will wish to do her harm, and your waters will run as dark as mine." Her voice was low and dull. "I want to see red ants eat her alive. I want to see her burn. I want her to walk naked in the desert until the Sun blisters her skin and she dies trying to remember water." Thick heavy tears ran down her face. "I want to hear her scream. I am ashamed of the filth within me."

"But you won't," I said. "You are good and kind, and I love you."

Fatin put Raage in his pram.

I held her in my arms.

She told me.

She was right.

 
I was sitting in my father's cabin, looking at the lights on the panel screwed into the wall. Slate had been busy. He had drilled a hole in the bulkhead and pulled through a bundle of electric cables leading to the Hermes device in the hold. We would remove it eventually, but it could wait. I knew how to use these machines. The last time I tried was in London. I looked at the clock. Ship time was set to the time in Greenwich. It would be morning there, people having breakfast, preparing for their day. On a whim, I got up and walked to the bridge. Brenda was at the helm and Alex was sitting in one of the chairs staring outside.

"Can we stop the ship for an hour?"

"Why?" said Alex.

"So we can face her East," I said.

"Thinking of becoming a Muslim?" said Brenda. "It's not easy, you know? You're not allowed to mix salt water with fresh water."

I blinked. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Why would you want to turn east?"

"Two days ago, Slate stopped the ship and turned to the southeast to send a message using that Hermes device of his. I want to try sending a message to Ipswich."

"That's nice," said Alex. "What do you want to say?"

"Tell them we're still alive. Maybe get some news."

"Worth a try," said Brenda.

Alex and I went back to Father's cabin, leaving Brenda to turn our Lady towards Ipswich. I pulled the lever next to the word "LONDINIVM," which was closest to Ipswich. Next to that was a toggle marked TRANSMITTERE and ACCIPERE. Slate did have an obsession with dead languages. In the middle of the panel was the rotary dial with all the letters of the alphabet. I looked at Alex, she looked at me. I started my message.

CALLING ALGERNON UNIVERSITY

I waited. Nothing happened. Alex nudged me.

"You need to turn it back to listening, dear brother of mine."

"Ah."

I toggled the device back to, as we Latinists call it, accipere. I waited again. Nothing happened.

"Try again," said Alex.

I put the toggle back to transmittere, repeated my message, turned the machine back to receiving. The machine remained motionless.

"Are they awake yet?" said Alex.

"It's half past nine in the morning in Ipswich. Maybe they're having breakfast."

"Or in class." Alex leaned back against the wall. "I miss them. I wish I could have taken Chipahua with us. She would love Algernon U."

"She could teach Nahuatl literature."

"Kema," said Alex.

I reached out to the toggle to try sending again, but before I could, there was a noise, and the needle on the Device started moving. I grabbed a notepad and wrote down what it said.

TRINITY REID. WHO IS THIS?

We looked at each other.

"Trinity?" said Alex.

I turned the machine back to transmitting.

AIRSHIP LADY I TO TRINITY GREETING. CARL TENNANT. WHO ARE YOU?

TRINITY COLLEGE EILEEN REID. STAND BY.

Nothing happened for at least ten minutes. Then the needle on the panel started to move again.

ALGERNON IPSWICH TO LADY I. PIKE HERE. IS THIS CARL TENNANT?

"It's Professor Pike," said Alex. "Ask him how the Rifle Club is doing."

I sent another message. THIS IS CARL TENNANT, CAPTAIN OF LADY I

"You pompous git," said Alex. "Brenda and I can throw you overboard and then I will be captain."

"Or Brenda," I said, dividing and conquering.

The needle moved again. CAN YOU PROVE WHO YOU ARE?

I stared at the notepad. "They don't believe me!"

"Who would?" said Alex. "Can I have a go?"

"Of course."

I got up and Alex sat down.

JOCELYN IS A VAMPIRE. SHE HIT NOTHING BUT BULLSEYES AT FOLKESTONE.

There was a quick response.

ALG TO LADY I. WELCOME BACK TENNANTS. HOW ARE THINGS?

LADY I TO ALG. SHIP PROVISIONALLY REPAIRED. HEADING TO CARACAS FOR PROPER REPAIRS. ALL WELL ON BOARD.

ALG TO LADY I. WHO IS ON BOARD?

Alex looked over her shoulder at me, turned back to the machine.

ALEXANDRA BRENDA CARL FATIN RAAGE STRANGER

STRANGER?

Alex chuckled. OFFICER IN CHARGE OF RODENT CONTROL

DO NOT UNDERSTAND. PLEASE EXPLAIN.

TRINITY TO ALG. A CAT.

ALG TO TRINITY. THANK YOU RAPUNZEL. LADY I. ETA AT CARACAS?

Alex looked at me.

"Two days," I said.

Alex told this to Pike and the mysterious Rapunzel of the Trinity.

ALG TO LADY I. WAIT AT CARACAS. KHARTOUM WISHES TO MEET.

"Khartoum?" Alex sneered. "Do we have any friends in Khartoum?"

"You mean the nice people who wanted to give us all those shiny bullets?"

"We could return the favour."

Alex turned back to the machine. LADY I TO ALG. ACKNOWLEDGED. WILL WAIT AT CARACAS.

ALG TO LADY I. EXCELLENT. IT IS GOOD TO SEE YOU ALIVE AND WELL. WILL CONTACT AGAIN WHEN WE HAVE MORE NEWS. ALGERNON OUT.

LADY I TO ALG. LIKEWISE. LADY I OUT.

 

---

 
I opened the door to the starboard cargo hold dubbed Second Class carefully. Sabine did not spring out at us. In fact she was still tied up, naked, lying still. I turned on the gas light and she started to move, turned round towards us.

"Hello Cherie," Alex said.

Sabine glared at her, said nothing. Brenda knelt by her, held a bottle of water to her lips. She drank, coughed.

"What do you want," she said.

"What we want?" I said. "Let's see. You electrocuted the old priest. You abused, tortured, and then murdered Yaretzi." I moved closer to her. "You took our child, tied a rope round his waist, and hung him over the open bomb hatch to force my wife to work faster. And finally, you poisoned our father. What do you think we want?"

"I did not kill your father." Sabine looked at Alex. "She did. How did it feel? To pull the trigger? To watch him die?"

Alex could barely control her voice. "A mercy. Your poison would have had him in agony for God knows how long. His death is on your conscience, not mine."

"Oh Alexandra. The poison we put in his meal." Sabine's smile dripped with sadistic glee. "It was not lethal. We didn't want to kill him. We wanted him out of the way for a while. He and your little soldier girl would have felt sick for a few days, but after that they would have been fine." She laughed out loud. "Or he would have been if you had not put a bullet through his heart."

Alex sprang forward and before I could stop her. She grabbed Sabine by the throat, drew back her arm, and punched her in the face.

"You are lying!" she screamed.

Sabine spat out blood. "Look into my eyes, Alexandra Tennant. Am I lying? Am I really lying?"

Alex pulled back her arm to hit Sabine again, but Brenda grabbed her, pulled her away. Alex tried to push her, but Brenda wouldn't be pushed. She held up her hand, stretched out, knife-like. She pulled her out of the hold, pushed her against the wall. She held her by the shoulders.

"Tennant. Look at me," she said. "The bitch is lying. The Old Man wrote down how he felt after he'd eaten the poison. Drowsy. Confused. Head hurting. The shits. That means arsenic. The Captain wasn't stupid. He didn't guess, he knew. And it would have gotten worse in hours. Vomiting. Pissing blood. Shaking fits. You spared him all that, Tennant!" Brenda let go of Alex. "And I let it happen. You wanna punch her face into a bloody pulp, I ain't judging you." She looked at her feet. "But save some for me."

Alex' lips trembled. Her head fell. She put her arms round Brenda, hugged her.

"Piss off Tennant," said Brenda, but she didn't try to push Alex away.

I walked back into the hold. Sabine looked up at me.

"So what are you going to do with me, Capitaine? Shoot me? Throw me out of the hatch? Or maybe your lovely sister would like to torture me to death?"

"I think she would. I am trying to think of a reason why she shouldn't."

Sabine gave a sarcastic little laugh. "She would be, what is it you English say, rubbish at it? She would break every bone in her hands punching me in the head. Tell her to hang me up. Feet up of course so I stay conscious for longer. Use a hammer. Or maybe take me to a place in the desert, tie me to the ground with stakes, and then leave me to die of thirst and sunburn. But then she won't get to watch my last moments." She spat on the floor. "You don't have the stomach for that, do you? Admit it. You are too weak. You disgust me."

Alex walked in, followed by Brenda.

"Let's just get rid of her," Alex said.

I thought a moment.

"I have a better idea."

 

---

 
We arrived at Caracas two days later, right on time. We put Lady I into the dock for much needed repairs. New windscreens, new propeller, a full load of fresh lifting gas. Patching up the holes in our envelope made by Boreas' cannons. It made her look like a patchwork blanket, but painting her could wait. We spent the last of Father's gold on a full bunker of coal.

"From now on, we pay our own way," said Alex.

"About goddamn time," said Brenda.

 
On the second day after our arrival, we had a visitor. Usually, this particular visitor would appear in a puff of purple smoke, or something equally dramatic, but this time, he simply walked up our gangplank and asked to be let in. It was none other than Nazeem of the Order of Cross and Moon. We all sat down around the table and had tea like normal people.

"Nazeem offers you his condolences on the passing of your father. May the spirits guide him on his journey through the Life Beyond."

"Thank you Nazeem," I said. "We will dearly miss his wisdom and guidance on our own journeys. What brings you here?"

"Nazeem has come here to share with you things that it has been given him to know. The Governor of Khartoum and his son are travelling to this port in a vessel of the Khartoum air fleet. It is not their intention to offer violence to you or your ship. They simply wish to speak with you, about the matters surrounding the death of Mrs. Najilah Moghadam, Spirits guide and preserve her."

"We know," I said. "We've had word."

"What you do not know is that, through the efforts of Omar Khouri, Ahmad Moghadam now believes that Najilah died by the hand of Sabine Moreau, and not by yours, Miss Tennant."

"It was her gun, certainly," said Alex.

"That is a distinction lost on Ahmad, but I assure you, not on his father Bouzid. He does understand that it was the will of Prometheus that led to the demise of his son's wife."

"More like Sabine's will to lust over her," Brenda said. "She wanted her as a pet. I wouldn't recommend it. Most of her play-mates have ended up dead."

Alex stared at the wall. "Najilah joined Prometheus moments before she died. The last will be first, and the first will be last. They try to kill us, we try to kill them. It doesn't matter when you join."

Nazeem looked round the table with his dark eyes. "It is the understanding of Nazeem that the enmity and strife between Khartoum and the Tennant Company serves neither, and can lead only to bloodshed and misfortune. We of the Order of Cross and Moon, as well as our friends in England, have worked long and hard to bring this matter to an end. The meeting of Ahmad and Bouzid Moghadam and the crew of LadyI will serve as the final act."

Nazeem sat up straight. "The facts as they have been accepted are these. Sabine Moreau captured Alexandra Tennant, and brought her to the warehouse where she tied her to a chair, intending to punish her for her efforts against Prometheus. Sabine left Alexandra in the presence of Najilah, to inquire of the Magister how she should be punished. Najilah perceived the unrighteousness of these actions, and started to untie Alexandra, so as to flee with her. Sabine returned, saw what Najilah was doing and shot her as a traitor to Prometheus. Alexandra fled, found a gun, and used it to wound Sabine, who then escaped to a hospital in Cape Town. Remember this."

"Poor brave Najilah," Alex put her finger on her forehead. "This is where she put her gun. If I hadn't got my hands free, I would have a hole there instead of her."

"She is dead, my sister." I put my hand on Alex'. "You are alive. If we let the Moghadams believe this, they will be off our backs."

"Hah!" Brenda raised her fist. "I say to hell with all this. We'll fight it out with the Sudanese air force."

"Brenda." Fatin gently rocked Raage in her arms with a little gleam in her eyes. "My little boy does not like loud noises. Can you destroy all the bad airships quietly?"

"But the loud noises are what makes it fun!"

Fatin gave Brenda a stern look.

"Oh all right then. We'll do it Nazeem's way."

I gently squeezed Alex' hand. "So Najilah gets to be a little more heroic, and Sabine gets to be a little more villainous. And you are free of blame."

Alex squeezed my hand in return. "I can live with that."

 

---

 
Nazeem walked down our gangplank and disappeared into the gloom. We left a note with the port authorities to the Moghadam family where they could find us, a deserted wooden farmhouse near the edge of the forest. None of us much felt like spoon feeding Sabine, so we had untied her, given her one of Alex' shirts and a pair of shorts. Fatin was at the helm, I was in the Captain's chair with Raage asleep in my arms. Alex was on one of the telescopes. Brenda was sitting in one of the observation chairs."

"There they are," she said. "Horse drawn carriage. About twenty miles north by north-east. Should be here in an hour."

"Take us down," I said. "When we are inside, go to ten thousand."

"Aye-aye Captain," said Fatin. "Put Raage in his pram."

 
Alex and I were sitting on a crate in the living room of the farmhouse. We had left the door open. Two armed guards walked in, gave us the merest glance, looked round the room, and left without a word. A few moments later, Ahmad Moghadam walked in, impeccably dressed in a blue business suit, except with a headscarf called a Keffiyeh instead of a top hat. He was followed by his father, Bouzid Moghadam.

"Good afternoon," Bouzid Moghadam said.

"Salaam Aleikum," Alex pointed at the two chairs. "Please have a seat."

"How do you do," I added.

"I am in the presence of the kafir who murdered my wife," Ahmad said. "And who took her to the place of her death. If I had my way, you would both be tied to stakes and made to tell me all you know."

"Quiet Ahmad," said Bouzid. His gold-rimmed spectacles flashed at me in the afternoon sun. "I understand that you are willing to talk even without Ahmad's... persuasions. So talk." He gave us a little smile. "But do remember that we have come prepared, in the unlikely event you are unwilling to tell us the truth."

"It is always good to be prepared," I said. "Our airship is hovering over us at high altitude. If we do not come out in..." I looked at my watch. "Forty seven minutes, they will assume that we are dead, or would prefer to be, and they will turn this house into a pile of splinters."

"And Brenda will finally be Captain," said Alex. "I think she won't look away from the clock for even a second."

Bouzid sighed. "Then let us not waste more time. How did Najilah, Allah yarhemha, come to be on board your airship?"

"She simply walked up," I said. "She asked to be let on board. She believed that her life was in danger, and she needed to flee."

"Flee from whom?"

"You."

Ahmad leapt up. "That is a lie! I would never harm the love of my life, and she knew it!"

"Ahmad!" Bouzid glared at his son. "Do you wish to wait in the carriage?"

"What? While these kafir..."

"Then sit down and be quiet." He turned to me. "Continue. Why did Najilah think she was in danger?"

"I don't know the whole story, but I understand there were rumours of indiscretions between her and one of your guests."

"Agent Wainwright."

"Yes."

"Captain Tennant. We do not execute our women on the power of mere rumours and allegations. Najilah knows this."

"She was persuasive," I said. "We had no reason to doubt her."

"Yes Captain, you had." Bouzid Moghadam gave us a dark look. "We are not savages, as you English seem to think. Be that as it may. How did she leave?"

"As she came," I said. "Of her own volition. In the company of Sabine Moreau, who persuaded her to join."

"Interesting. How did Miss Moreau leave?"

"Miss Moreau was eager to leave us," I said. "We did not part ways on the friendliest of terms."

"That is my understanding." He gave Alex an amused look. "She captured you?"

"Yes," Alex said. "Meaning to kill me when I had outlived my usefulness as a hostage." She looked at me, then at Ahmad. "Najilah saved my life that day, and I will be forever grateful to her."

The best lies are the truth, viewed from a specific angle. Najilah had tied my sister's hands together, but not tightly enough. I made a mental note to make a small donation to the theatre where we went to see the late Harry Houdini. Alex closed her eyes a moment and shuddered. She told the story we had agreed upon with Nazeem. Najilah died a hero. I looked at Ahmad. His eyes were turned down, and he was muttering a prayer. By all accounts, he had truly loved Najilah, and showered her with gifts and affection. It wasn't enough, or rather it had been the wrong thing to give Najilah. Najilah had desired freedom. Adventure. Independence. The one thing Ahmad could never have given her.

Bouzid Moghadam nodded slowly. "Your words are in accord with what I have been told by my servants. I think you are telling the truth, or as much of it as you can. My conclusion is this. You are not responsible for the death of my son's wife. For your part, this affair is at an end. I wish to have no more to do with you, and will not pursue you any further. You are the bringer of evil into our land. Because of that, you will never again enter North Sudanese airspace. If you do, we will destroy your airship." He turned round. "Ahmad. We are done here. We will return home."

Bouzid turned round to leave, but I raised my hand.

"Wait. There is one more matter." Alex and I got up from the crate. "We have a present for you."

"I do not wish for any present from you."

I opened the locks on the chest and opened the lid. "You haven't seen it yet."

Inside the chest, bound and gagged, was Sabine Moreau. She blinked in the light, saw Bouzid and Ahmad, and turned pale. Ahmad stepped forward and pulled away her gag.

"They are lying!" Sabine screamed. "I am innocent! She shot Najilah!"

Ahmad grabbed Sabine's wrists and pulled her out of the crate. She screamed and kicked, incoherent sentences, curses. Her eyes were wide open with fear. He lifted her up and put her on the table, bent over her.

"You had this kafir woman tied to a chair, but then she freed herself, took your gun away from you, and shot my innocent wife with it?" He grabbed a handful of her hair and banged her head against the table. "Is that what you are trying to make me believe? Do you think I am insane?"

"I didn't do it!"

While this was going on, Bouzid walked outside, called in two guards. Together, they untied Sabine's hands and feet and tied them to the table. Ahmad walked to the carriage and came back with a leather suitcase. He opened it and I could see the glint of steel and some glass bottles.

He turned to me. "Do you want to see this?"

"No thank you." I looked at Sabine, felt nothing.

Alex walked up to the table, took hold of Sabine's chin and turned her face towards her.

"This is how I will remember you," Alex said. "Goodbye Sabine."

She turned round and walked out. I looked back once, followed her. As we set off for the point where Lady I would pick us up, we heard Sabine's first scream.

I still felt nothing.

God forgive me, I still felt nothing.

Godfrey Pike: The end of Prometheus?

Magic bullets - The return of Lady I - Captain Tennant - Sisters in arms - Paperwork - Tennant Airborne Scientific Transport for Expeditions - Messages at the speed of thought - No news is good news - Signals from the South

 

TENNANT AIRBORNE SCIENTIFIC TRANSPORT FOR EXPEDITIONS Swift, Secure, Scientific!

 

Are you planning a scientific expedition? Are you worried how to get there? Are you worried about inaccessible terrain? Hostile environments? The heat? The cold? The wet? The dry? Bid your worries goodbye. Tennant Airborne Scientific Transport for Expeditions is here to provide for your every need. Our flagship, Airship Lady I, can provide comfortable accommodations for up to eight expedition members and ten metric tons of equipment. Powered by twin A. Parsons Mk.14 steam turbines, the airship Lady I can achieve speeds of up to 200km/h. No area on the globe is inaccessible. There is no longer any excuse to deny your scientific curiosity. Tennant Airborne has you covered from where you are to where you are going and back! For inquiries write to Tennant Airborne Scientific Transport for Expeditions, Ipswich.

 

---

 
It was late in the afternoon, and I was enjoying a quiet cigar at the back of the range where the Rifle Club were sharpening their shooting. In days gone by I might have been tempted to keep my hand in with my twenty-two pistol, but today I did not feel the urge, and was content simply to watch Jocelyn lead the shooters as fire marshal. She would be leaving soon, to an uncertain future.

Her voice sounded loud, clear, and confident. "Clear the range! That means you too, Jenkins! Range clear! Fire at will, because... what?"

"We all hate Will," the shooters replied in unison, and firing commenced.

 
The gate opened, and Miss StJohn came walking in with the three boys from the Wizard's Tower. She waved at Jocelyn, who came over.

"Got room for three more?" She pointed at each boy in turn. "Dankworth, Sallow, Fernsby." She turned to them, pointing. "This is Jocelyn Vale. Don't try it on with her, she's mad."

Jocelyn gave them a wide-eyed smile. "Hello. What's your blood group?"

"Um," said Dankworth. "I... don't know."

Jocelyn licked her lips. "Would you like to know?"

Carrie pointed a stern finger at her. "Jocelyn. Not food."

"Shame," said Jocelyn. "Have any of you ever fired a rifle before? No? All right then. Safety talk. Repeat after me. Every gun is loaded."

Carrie elbowed Dankworth.

"Every gun is loaded," the boys said in unison.

"Good. Never point a firearm at any creature you are not prepared to kill. Be aware at all times where your firearm is pointing. Faith is not a virtue when handling firearms. Believing that a rifle is clean, that a rifle is not loaded, that the safety is on, that there is nobody ahead, has cost people their lives. Do not believe. Know. On the range, follow the instructions of the marshal, that is me, exactly, promptly, and without question. The rifle you are given is your responsibility for the duration of the session. The session ends when the rifle is clean, oiled, and securely locked away. Is that clear?"

Jocelyn picked up a rifle and showed the boys how to hold it, to keep their fingers away from the trigger until ready to fire, how to load, how to unload and show empty.

"Do you know how many negligent discharges we've had since the founding of the club? Nil. Do not be the first one, or you'll be out of here. That clear? Any questions? No?"

Carrie raised her hand. "Do you renounce Satan, and all of his works?"

"Yes. Anything else? No?"

Jocelyn called cease fire, fresh bits of paper were hung up, and the boys were each paired up with one of the girls, who started to show them how to put holes in faraway things.

 
The first thing I noticed was a large shadow gliding across the shooting range. I looked up and floating majestically above the sports field was an airship, painted white below, black above. On her side was a large white square patch, and on its side in yellow letters was the name: Lady I.

"It's the Tennants!" Jocelyn looked up, a bright smile on her face.

"The who?" said Dankworth.

"Five bullets penalty! It's only Alexandra Tennant, the founder of this club! You're lucky to meet her."

The airship settled onto the rugby pitch, the door opened, and Carl and Miss Lee leapt out, stakes and sledgehammers in hand. The propellers stopped turning. The mooring lines pulled taut. The high whine of the turbines dropped in pitch, stopped. Lady I had returned home, after many adventures.

 
Carl disappeared inside, to come out a moment later wearing a blue blazer, a Captain's hat, and carrying a leather satchel. Next were Miss Alexandra Tennant and Miss Brenda Lee. They jumped to attention, backs straight as a ruler, and threw him a picture perfect military salute. Mrs. Fatin Tennant came out carrying her child in a sling. Miss Lee tapped her shoulder, and repeated the salute. Mrs. Tennant laughed, pulled Carl's hat off and put it on her own head. Women today. No respect for authority, I tell you.

The whole Tennant family came walking towards us, Carl recovering his hat on the way. They came through the gate and Jocelyn called cease fire. The Rifle Club girls pushed up to Miss Tennant, who hardly knew who to embrace first.

"I am so happy to see you," she said. "I've missed you so much!"

"We can help you with that," said Jocelyn, pointing her thumb at the range. "You haven't been practicing, have you?"

"I..." Miss Tennant hesitated just a moment. "No, I haven't. Shame on me. No biscuit."

"Well, show us the damage." Carrie handed Miss Tennant one of the Browning rifles and a magazine. "Five in the magazine, chamber empty. Please check."

"I can't..." Miss Tennant passed the rifle on to Miss Lee. "Brenda?"

"Every Marine a rifleman," said Miss Lee.

She stepped into one of the booths. She pushed the magazine in, chambered a round, shouldered the rifle, fired three rounds. They were off-target, but all were within the same two inch circle. She compensated, fired two more rounds. A nine and a bullseye.

"And that's how you do that."

Without looking at her hands, she ejected the magazine. Bolt open. Safety on. Put the weapon down pointing at the range. Mr. Fernsby came up.

"Are you an Army soldier?"

Miss Lee sneered at him. "I ain't no stinking soldier." She thumped her chest. "I'm a Shieldmaiden. Oo-rah!"

Jocelyn clapped her hands. "Algernon Rifle Club! We have our founder present! Let's show her how well we have learnt her lessons. Range clear! Fire at will because..."

"We all hate Will!"

 
Miss Lee joined the shooters, now and then giving them her expert advice. Carl and his wife sat down, their little boy riding horse on Carl's knee. Miss Tennant stood next to me watching the Rifle Club. Jocelyn walked up.

"Miss Alexandra?"

"Jocelyn?"

"I... um. I heard about your father." She took Miss Tennant's hand. "I'm sorry."

Miss Tennant took a breath, smiled at Jocelyn. "Thank you."

Jocelyn studied her face carefully, looked away.

"We've got this new Prof."

"Really?"

"Her name is McGee. She's good. She's a locum for Schmidt."

"Yes?"

"She helped me a lot. I went on a mission with Dr. Pike, and they strapped me to a bed and poured me full of brain juice. Made an unholy mess of my head for a while. Professor Lutitia McGee helped straighten me out. Felt so much better."

Miss Tennant frowned, shook her head as if to wake herself up, turned her eyes to Jocelyn. "What?!"

"I went on a mission with Agent Wainwright and Dr. Pike. To the place where they plan the expeditions for Boreas." She let her hair fall over her eyes, dropped her arm by her side, hand twitching. Her voice became a rasp. "I was Doc-tor Pike's daugh-ter. I see all the re-ali-ties." Her voice returned to normal. "I was a mad little bunny. But then they hooked me up to some of their machines when Dr. Pike wasn't looking."

Miss Tennant slowly turned a dark look towards me, and the bottom fell out of my stomach. What had I done?

"Yes. That was my fault. Luckily, Jocelyn will be moving into the Secret Services programme soon. They will take better care of her."

"Professor." Jocelyn reached out and grabbed my arm. "It was my fault. The bloody nurse came in and told me they were going to move me. I should have bolted as soon as I heard that. I decided to wait for you." She stood in front of me, looking into my eyes. "I did that. Trust me, I won't be as stupid next time. And there will be a next time, thanks to you."

I had to swallow. I reached out and touched her hair. "For you, there will be. I'm looking forward to you telling me nothing about it, because of Operational Secrecy." I looked at the University building. "It's time for me to stop interfering in your business."

Miss Tennant stared at Jocelyn. "What?!"

Jocelyn's face lit up like the Sun. "I'm going to be a spy! In the Secret Service. But don't tell anyone." She bent closer. "Operational Secrecy, you understand?"

 
"Alexandra!"

Prof. Dr. Margaret Enderby stood in front of us, arms crossed, tapping her foot, a dark expression on her face.

"And when were you thinking of coming to visit me? What?"

She opened her arms. Miss Tennant fell into them.

"I was unavoidably detained. Rifle Club business."

"Then I forgive you." Margaret studied Miss Tennant's face. "You, young lady are coming with me for a nice cup of tea. And by tea I mean G and T."

"Isn't it a little early for that?"

"Nonsense! We need to have a proper chat, and it's always time for that. Come with me this instant!"

"I beg your pardon?" Carl came up, carrying their boy. "What, ma'am, are your intentions towards my sister?"

"I shall feed her drunk and have my wicked way with her."

"Oh," said Carl. "Jolly good. Carry on."

Margaret marched Miss Tennant off. Jocelyn wordlessly held out her arms to Carl and he gave the boy to her. Jocelyn instantly turned to mush and told him how much he had grown. The boy testily replied that he was aware of that, thank you very much.

"We'd better go and find Wadcroft," Carl patted the leather satchel. "We have all been writing reports. Some of it makes grim reading."

Fatin wrenched Raage from Jocelyn's arms. We left Miss Lee with Jocelyn to educate a future generation of squires and Shieldmaidens, and walked to Wadcroft's chambers. He invited us in, poured us cups of tea and started to go through the reports, making notes. He looked up at us.

"Did any of you ever find out the City's real name? Anctapolepl was just Philip's newly coined word for a horrible place where only madmen go."

Carl shook his head. "They called it Altepetl, but that just means 'City'. I never thought to ask."

Wadcroft made a note. "Anctapolepl it is, then." He looked over the neat stacks of paper. "I shall start ordering the tale and try to turn it into a proper expedition report."

"Do you want any help with that?" I said. "Maybe I'll need to redact some of the more sensitive information."

"No need old chap," Wadcroft said. "I'll give you a copy and you can smudge as much ink on it as you want."

That is not how it works, I started to say, but I kept my mouth shut and nodded. I am retired. Operational Secrecy be bothered. We're all conspirators here.

"I hear that you have made your peace with the Khartoum lot," I said instead.

"They won't try to hunt us down and kill us," said Carl. "But I'm afraid Tennant's Airborne won't be able to help you with any expeditions into Sudan. They will shoot us on sight if we darken their skies."

"I suppose that is an improvement," I said. "Thanks to our Mr. Khouri."

"Well, we did leave them a nice present," Carl said.

"What?"

"A toy for Ahmad Moghadam to play with," said Carl, and would not be drawn on the details.

Carl picked up his satchel. "Gentlemen, if that is all, I have to make an appointment with Chancellor Munroe, and recommend Tennant Airborne Scientific Transport for Expeditions to him." He pulled out a calling card and placed it on Wadcroft's desk. "All our prices are reasonable."

"Give my regards to Clarice," said Wadcroft.

 

---

 
Dear Dr. Pike,

 
They finally allowed me to hold a firearm! It looks like something one might find in a lonely lady's bedside drawer, but it is in fact a pistol. It is mostly a silencer with the actual shooting part being an afterthought. Yes Miss Tennant, I know. A suppressor. This one is really quiet though, so silencer is appropriate. It is accurate up to throwing distance. You need to get close to use it. It gave me the shivers. This is a weapon for killing people without anyone noticing. Except for the mark, obviously. They will only send us after people who deserve it. I am assured of this.

Physical Education in this school is a little different from what we did at Algernon. Running, mostly. Miles and miles of running. It's heartwarming to see that they are concerned with our health. That's why it is a little strange that after all that, they make us climb walls with a twenty foot drop behind. And then we have to crawl over ropes over a river a hundred feet below. Broken bones and drowning are good for your character, it seems.

Geography is mostly about shipping routes. Train lines. Airship routes. Roadways. It combines with History. We are learning about the politics of all the foreign countries and how they got that way. I have been told not to wear a sundress or PE shorts in Egypt because it might offend the Prophet. I will be sure not to do so.

One of the boys told me we're going to get a puppy to take care of soon, but on the final exam, we'll have to shoot it to show that we are ruthless killers. They say there's good eating on a beagle, but huskies have better fur for mittens and maybe a hat. What do you think?

Dr. Pike, if I haven't said this before, thank you for introducing me to the Service. I talked to a few of the other students, and none of them went on any actual missions before the third year, and then only with strict instructions not to get out in the open. Only now I realise what a chance you gave me to get my feet wet. I promise you, I'll dry them off carefully after every mission.

Have to finish. They are going to teach us about sniper rifles next. Hah! I'll use my Vampire powers and blow them away!

Voluntas!

 
Yours,

Agent-in-training Jocelyn Vale.

 

---

 
I had a visit today from the joint owners of Tennant's Airborne, Carl and Alexandra. They have taken a few Algernon expeditions to the Swiss Alps, to Russia, and to central Africa. They are starting to make a name for themselves. They are fast, competent, and safe. And I must say they look very smart in their blue uniforms. Their flagship is still Lady I, named after their mother, and after the priestess from Anctapolepl.

They have a secret on board. The master Hermes Device put on board by Magister Slate has been removed, and Parker is studying it. It has been replaced with what Professor Parker calls a Mercury device. Instead of the cumbersome clockwork affair, it uses Morse code. This makes Lady I the only vessel in the air with the capability to send messages instantly all over the world. That we know of anyway. We have no idea what Prometheus are doing. All their Hermes devices have vanished from the luminiferous æther, and we can only guess how they pass on messages now. Experience teaches us not to pronounce anyone dead unless we have a corpse.

Speaking of which, we have had word from our friend Omar Khouri in Khartoum. He reports that Sabine Moreau is finally confirmed dead. Ahmad Moghadam's lust for revenge finally satiated, she was hanged in some dark place. Omar's words were: what was left of her. I can imagine only too well. The news did not shock Alexandra or Carl. Should it have? I am happy that such questions are no longer mine to answer.

"Are they certain she is really dead?" Carl said. "I'm not sure I trust messages from our acquaintances in Khartoum."

"If you wanted to be sure, then you should have shot her yourself, dear brother of mine," said Alexandra. "Thank you for the news, Dr. Pike."

"You're welcome. Where are you going next?"

"France," Alexandra said. "We're taking Wadcroft and five of his Geological undergrads to the Pyrenees for a few weeks of bashing rocks up the Montcalm Massif."

"That sounds like fun. I hear the Pyrenees are beautiful this time of year."

"Maybe. We'll drop Wadcroft et al off in the wilderness and then we head for the beach of Montpelier. Put a healthy tan on Raage's face."

"How is the little man?"

"Starting to crawl. We have been installing child gates all over our Lady. I'm not sure that will keep him."

"Eternal vigilance..." I got up to show them out. "Safe journey."

 

---

 
Dear Winston,

 
I have not heard any sign of Prometheus for six months now. If they are still active, they have managed to hide even from our mighty George Bennett Array. The Order of Cross and Moon likewise shroud themselves in silence. Ipswich, Dublin, and Edinburgh are using the Mercury devices to exchange messages, mostly to complain about University professors and fellow students, which is a matter too sensitive even to share with you, Winston.

Perhaps we have finally heard the last of Magister Slate and his insalubrious organisation. I think providing you with monthly news on the lack of news is no good use of anyone's time. I will wait until I hear something, and close this file until I find a reason to open it again.

 
Until we meet again,

 
Yours truly,

Dr. Godfrey Pike.

 

---

 
I was working on my lecture about the Siege of Khartoum when there was a knock on my door. An hour ago, I had watched Lady I make its customary circle round the bell tower before taking Wadcroft et al on an adventure in sunny France. I opened the door. It was Parker. He stepped inside immediately, and put a world map on my desk.

"What ho, Sparker," I said.

"Signals, P-pike!" He stabbed a finger onto the map. "From the South! Unlike anything we've heard before. Our apparatus can't make heads or tails of it. The frequency spectrum is all over the place."

"Could this be... Prometheus?"

"If it is, then they've ditched all their old Hermes devices. Which would be wise, because we can spot them as soon as they start talking."

"Can you see where they are?"

"Yes we can. Unless we've all gone mad, it's Antarctica!"

I blinked. "The South Pole?"

"Or c-close to it." Parker pulled at his beard. "Should we warn the T-Tennants?"

I thought a moment. "They have just set off for the South of France. Let's wait till we know more. Wouldn't want to alarm Prometheus with our messages. Can you find out what these signals are?"

"The Sparks are on the job, Professor Pike. Leave it to us."

I stood up. "Thank you for the news, Parker. Let me know when you find something."

 
Parker left, and I walked to the window, staring at the Wizards' Tower with its herringbone antennae sticking out in every direction. And here I was, thinking I could simply retire. Secretly, I hoped that this would simply turn out to be some natural phenomenon, or maybe a fellow Electrical enthusiast. But my gut told me differently. This called for extreme measures.

I walked to the cupboard, and poured myself a finger of eighteen year old Ardbeg single malt.

 
"Bother," I said, to nobody in particular.

 
I put a fresh piece of paper on my desk, took out my fountain pen, and started to write.