by Jack Conner
“A city? This far underground?”
“You really don’t know anything, do you? Just who are you, anyway?”
“I’m asking the questions.”
“Until they catch you. I’ve heard the screams of the people they torture, you know.” He shuddered again, more sincerely this time, Lynch felt. “They’ll do the same to you, I’m sure. Of course, you don’t seem to know anything. They might do it just for fun.”
“Why is there a city underground? Does this have something to do with the Queen?”
Albert actually laughed. “It has everything to do with the Queen!”
“You don’t mean our Queen -- the Queen of Casveigh -- do you?”
“You fool! Of course I don’t mean that bitch. I mean the Jade Queen, the Queen of Atlantis, who else?”
***
It was suddenly very hot in here. The air had been stifling for a long time, but it had grown blazing. Sweat trickled down Lynch’s arms, his back. “Did you say Atlantis? As in Plato?”
“There is only one Atlantis that I know of, my boy. Many think it was only a small island, but it was actually an enormous sub-continent with many great cities, peopled by a very advanced race. Ah! I hear activity ahead. We must be there. I suppose now would be the opportune moment to gag and bind me. Do be gentle about it. My fingers are my livelihood.”
Lynch wanted to strangle him, both for answers and out of frustration. “Not yet.”
“What? But our deal -- ”
“I need you a little longer.”
Albert grumbled something under his breath. Light spilled down the tunnel and shortly the tunnel opened into a large chamber. The size of the chamber, after so much time in the claustrophobic tunnels, startled Lynch, and he had to catch breath. The room was large enough for an immense silver zeppelin to be moored inside it, and indeed one was, and like a queen bee surrounded by workers a team of Society members or their lackeys swarmed around it, loading equipment up a ramp, securing the ropes that bound it to the floor, scanning clipboards for missed items. The bright lights gleamed off the huge silver airship, and Lynch wondered what it was for.
“We shan’t need this anymore, now will we?” Albert said. He sat the lantern down.
Lynch no longer actively pointed the MP 41 at Albert, but he gripped it so that it was very casually, generally pointed in his direction. Side by side, they strode through the activity of the room. Great sheets of netting were dragged to the side above; the netting had formed the ceiling of the room, and now stars twinkled overhead. This must be a depression carved out of the rock of the hills surrounding Brookshire. Early morning dew beaded the rough walls though it was quite dark yet.
Albert walked straight for the zeppelin.
“You’re going in?” Lynch asked.
“I am going about my normal duties. They will expect me to be with them, of course.”
“With them where?”
“In the air, you fool!”
“What is Operation Condor?”
Albert looked irritated. “Why could I not have been waylaid by a more knowledgeable goon? Operation Condor is no less than the downfall of Casveigh!”
Lynch used his hook arm to wipe sweat from his brow. A nearby trooper saw the movement, noted the hook, and frowned. Lynch walked on, silently berating himself.
“How?” he demanded of Albert.
A man in business attire approached, medium-sized and officious-looking. “Ah, Mr. Roark!” he said.
“Get me in that zeppelin,” Lynch hissed in Albert’s ear.
Though flushed and sweaty, Albert clasped the other man’s hand and said, “I’m not late, am I, Daniel?”
“Not at all,” Daniel said. “But we are just about to lift off. We cannot afford to be late now, can we?”
“I suppose not.”
“Come! Come! I’m to see you safely aboard.” He walked toward the main ramp that led into the zeppelin’s gondola, a huge structure on the underside of the airship; Lynch had never seen one so large and with so many windows and terraces.
Albert followed Daniel, Lynch at his side. Lynch cleared his throat to spurt Albert, and Albert grudgingly obliged.
“My, ah, guard wishes to see me safely aboard, as well,” Albert said.
“Good to see our men observe their duty.” They reached the ramp. A crate was just being loaded, and they waited for the workers to pass. Daniel waved Albert in, and Albert went, Lynch right behind.
“You are not needed anymore, ah, Captain,” Daniel said, reading Lynch’s stolen epaulets. “You can return to your unit.”
“I will,” Lynch said. “Just as soon as I see Mr. Roark to his station.”
“My cabin is this way,” Albert said.
The small man led Lynch inside the zeppelin, away from Daniel, through halls that seemed like those of a luxurious hotel -- rather like the Queen’s Arms above, in fact -- instead of those of a wartime mode of transport. Light gleamed on silver candleholders and fancy scrollwork.
“This is a work of art,” Lynch said.
Albert tried, poorly, to hide a sigh of irritation. “None but the best for our brave leaders.”
“You disapprove?”
Albert glanced around uneasily. Workers, troopers and others made their way through the carpeted halls, all about their own business, but he did not seem comfortable talking openly. “Not at all.”
They reached a stateroom. Albert unlocked it and stepped inside, Lynch on his heels. Lynch slammed the door and turned, just in time to see Albert bring a lantern down on his head. Lynch blocked the blow with his left forearm and drove the stock of the submachine gun into Albert’s gut. Albert wheezed and collapsed back onto a narrow bed. The cabin was handsomely appointed but small.
“Your suite, I take it?” Lynch said. “You had a key. How often do you fellows take this thing up, anyway?”
Still wheezing, Albert said, “There have been several . . . attempts . . . before. But tonight . . . I am confident . . . we will succeed.” He recovered himself and lay back on the bed. “I only wish to see the look of disappointment on Peters’s face.”
“The archeologist? Why?”
“He wants his precious findings to be the method to the Fuhrer’s victory, not good, old-fashioned war-making. The Ascendance, they call it. All a bunch of rubbish, of course. They’re more of a cult than an organization of true researchers. It is only luck that they came across the city where they thought it would be -- luck, and my blastings. They claim the Ascendance Project can do more than merely subdue one country, but they’re all a bunch of talk. The dust is dust, I say.”
Lynch wanted to know more but there wasn’t time. Even as he looked about for something to tie Albert down with, the tremor of mooring ropes casting off shook the ship. The zeppelin was lifting off.
“When you were with the others, when you came up from the tunnel, Eliza called you. You said you would meet with her. Where is she?”
Albert looked surprised. “The Lady? You know her?”
“Only by reputation.”
“She is wonderful, isn’t she? Does she know how her beauty and grace inspire me? Oh, but so cold! So cold! She sits in her penthouse like a spider, ensnaring us all in her web. But the Society could not function without her.”
“Where is she?”
“She will be in the bridge, of course, or the captain’s cabin.”
“The captain’s cabin?”
Albert smiled fondly. “Why yes. She is the captain of this vessel, the very person that will lead us to victory against the foes of Germany!”
Lynch had felt hot before, but now he felt cold. Eliza . . . leading these people? Against her own country? “How?” he said. “How will you defeat Casveigh?”
Albert looked impatient. “By destroying the train, you fool! Don’t you realize the only thing holding back the Count’s Luftwaffe are your country’s anti-aircraft guns? Well, Gaston’s supply of anti-aircraft shells is nearly kaput. A new shipment is coming in on the tr
ain from Rillsburg even now. Our agents just informed us of it. We will strike it and destroy it. Casveigh will be vulnerable. When the Luftwaffe attack comes tomorrow night, Gaston will run out of shells, and our bombers will level your capitol! Ha! How will your country run without a capitol? And your Queen, why she will be charred to cinders! Why, I bet -- ”
Lynch struck him over the head with the gun, and Albert fell back limply on the bed.
Chapter 10
“Trim the starboard rudder,” Eliza said. “That’s good. Yes, release some pressure from the Port Three valve. Better.” Hands clasped behind her back, she paced up and down the bridge. Through the great windows she could see the rolling landscape of the country, the high chalk country with its mounting hills. Ghostly moonlight illuminated a small village below. Everything outside the zeppelin showed in stark detail because the airship gave off no light; even the lights of the bridge were lowered so that no one would see them through the windows. The ship had gone dark to avoid detection and flew low enough to avoid most radar, though Eliza knew there should be no radar dishes directed their way. Radar would be directed outward, not inward.
Daniel approached, looking excited but nervous. “We’re still nearly five minutes behind schedule, Captain.”
“I am painfully aware of that, Mr. Thompson.” In fact, she had painfully crafted those five minutes, through several apparent bunglings on her part that she had tried to keep as invisible as possible to the greater crew; she could not afford to look incompetent. She hoped to delay the craft even more, to prevent it from making its deadly rendezvous with the Rillsburg train. It was the only way she could think of to stop the bombing without exposing herself. “We will still make it in time,” she assured him, aware that at the moment this was all too true.
He nodded. Sweat drenched his face. “It is nearly done. Can you feel it? Can you smell it?”
She smelled only sweat. “Indeed, Mr. Thompson. Now go and fetch Mr. Roark. I’m surprised he has not shown himself.”
Eliza was glad to see the back of him. She hated little toads like him, and the Nazi Party seemed swollen with them. Being surrounded by their ilk day after day constantly gave her the desire to bathe, to cleanse herself of their taint.
If she could not avert the zeppelin, or slow it -- if she had to break her cover -- Daniel would be the first one she’d shoot. She almost looked forward to it.
Around her the crew performed their functions, and she guided them grimly on. The landscape rolled beneath. She imagined she could see the column of smoke of the train ahead, but of course this was pure fancy. It was yet many kilometers away, and it was dark. Tension built in her -- built and built. She tried to make small mistakes here and there. Better to look incompetent than to blow her cover. She had perhaps twenty minutes. Twenty minutes and then she would have to take out her pistol and start shooting. They would get her, of course, but she hoped, she prayed, it would be enough.
She was so tense that when a voice issued through the intercom she flinched.
“Captain de Courtney, we need you in the radio room right away. We have intercepted a message. Only your codes can decipher it.”
“I’m busy,” she said. Nineteen minutes!
“It cannot wait, Captain. We believe the message is of the highest importance. Air Force may have found us.”
“I will be right there.” This was the perfect opportunity. She would alter or destroy the codes “accidently”, and when the Casveighan Air Force drew close, she would be forced to abandon the mission.
One of her crew stood up. “I will fetch it to them.”
“You cannot get the codes. Only I can.”
Trying to breathe normally, she left the bridge and passed the short distance to her cabin. Stepping into the darkened interior, she made her way toward the safe in the wall, hidden behind a painting. Only the codes requiring the highest clearance were kept there and were only to be used with the captain’s supervision. Rank was a strange animal in the Society, and, even though many of its members hailed from the SS, those with the reins of the Ascendance Project remained the superiors.
The painting that concealed the safe hung skewed. That was odd, but then again this was a ship, buffeted by winds and changes in direction.
As she started to remove the painting, a strong right arm snaked around her chest, pinned her arms to her sides, and jerked her back -- against a man, she could tell by his strength and smell. Something sharp pressed into the flesh of her neck. Cold and metal.
“Well, my dear, it seems we meet again,” said a voice.
Lynch! “It was you on the intercom,” she said. Her cabin had a direct line to the bridge, of course. When he said nothing, she added, “But how did you know about the codes? You must’ve been in the safe . . .”
“I am touched,” he said, his lips an inch from her ear. She could feel his heat, smell his animal odor. Part of her wanted to melt. But his voice, when it came, was harsh and as full of hate as the snarl of a wolf. “You used our anniversary as the combination. I tried Hitler’s birthday, the date of the Night of Long Knives, the day Germany invaded Poland. Nothing worked. So I tried something more personal. Your birthday. The day you lost your virginity -- to me, I might add. The day you married that old bastard. Finally, the day we pledged ourselves together . . .”
Something caught in her throat. She struggled to tighten control of herself. “It’s good to see you, Lynchmort. I thought . . . I thought you might be dead. The Bone Men . . . ”
“Just what are the Bone-Men?”
It surprised her that he did not even know that much. “You’ve come so far. You’re here, in the captain’s cabin of the Eva Braun, and you don’t even know that much?”
“I’m afraid not. Tell me.” His hook dug deeper into her flesh.
Seventeen minutes! she thought. Speaking fast, she said, “It’s one of the foundations of the Society -- but you don’t even know what that is, do you?”
“Enlighten me.”
“We don’t have time!”
His hook dug deeper. She gasped. “Enlighten me!”
Speaking even faster, she said, “The Society was formed by Lord Wilhelm von Ostholstein, brother of the Count. He and several like-minded individuals, obsessed with the mystery of Atlantis, had found the location of what they believed to be Atlantis’s ruins beneath the sea. Furthermore, they found notes . . . carvings . . . inscriptions . . . details that lead them to believe there were survivors of the Fall . . . “
“The Queen . . .”
“Exactly!”
“But that’s nonsense. It’s absurd!”
“Nevertheless. They found designs for weapons the Atlantans had used. They developed rudimentary, fragmentary Atlantan technology. It was beyond anything we’d devised, then or now or in the likely future. They were so far ahead of us it’s ridiculous.”
“You believe it?”
“I’ve seen the technology. So have you, if you’ve been to Sector One, and you have. Remember the green pedestal, the glowing pyramid? Those were all Atlantan, recovered and restored by Lord Wilhelm and his people. His Society found out where the survivors of Atlantis had fled to, and they desired to find the ruins, find more intact, more complete pieces of technology. Not only technology, but science.”
“Science?”
“Alchemy, if you like. The Atlantans had perfected ways to manipulate their genes, to change their very natures. They had found ways of making themselves superhuman.”
“Superhuman?”
“Perfect specimens of their race. Stronger, faster, better able to heal, more intelligent. The ideal man. Or woman.”
“I see why Hitler took an interest . . .”
“Yes! He threw his full support behind it. Now the Society is well-established, and it has grown in the heart of one of Nazi Germany’s most fervent enemies.”
There was a silence from Lynch, then, in a low voice: “This is where the ruins are, then. The ruins of the Atlantan survivors. That’s wh
y you lot set up shop here. And you’ve found some . . . alchemy . . . in the ruins. Alchemy that can make supermen.”
She grimaced. “It’s still being worked on. Lars and many of the others have already subjected themselves to a preliminary formula. It makes them stronger, faster. But . . . there is a downside . . . ”
“The murders . . . it has to do with this, doesn’t it?”
“Lars and the others -- they require the brain and spinal fluid of human victims.”
“Jesus.”
“They live off their victims like vampires. They’re monsters.”
“You haven’t partaken of this formula, I hope.”
“No. Dr. Jung faked it to make the others think I had. But I haven’t. He and the other scientists continue to try and perfect the formula. As it is, they are . . . enhanced, although dependent. But they are not the supermen the texts promise, and they wish to be rid of their addiction to spinal and brain fluid. The results of the experiments. . . well . . .”
“The Bone Men.”
“Yes. The formula twists and deforms the subjects, even their minds, makes them ravenous to consume the brains and spines of their victims. Dr. Jung and the others continue to refine it. Most think they will not be able to finish without excavating more ruins, discovering more texts, inscriptions, pieces of technology.”
“There’s more you’re not telling me. The Queen . . .”
She thrashed in impatience. “There’s no time for any more, Lynchmort. I can’t catch you up on everything. We’re due to strike the train in just a few minutes. I need you to storm the bridge and -- ”
“You wish to stop the bombing?”
“Of course! You think I’m a fucking Nazi?”
There was a stunned silence. The breath that had been teasing her throat stopped. When it started again, it was slower, more regulated. Less angry. Some of the tension filling Lynch seemed to ease, and the arm holding her tight against him relaxed -- somewhat. The hook still remained at her throat. “Speak,” he said.
“I serve the Queen, of course,” she said. “It should be obvious. God damn it, Lynch, you moron, you’ve known me your whole life!”
