The Jade Queen

by Jack Conner

  “Para . . .” Queen Fontaine sucked in a breath.

  “I do not think -- ” Lynch started.

  “That gun!” the Grand Vizier said, indicating with one of his chins the pistol Lynch had stuck through his belt. “That’s the weapon that shot the Prince! I saw it with my own eyes. Queen Fontaine killed him because she is a traitor -- a Nazi sympathizer!” There were gasps and bellows of incredulity from the massed people. “Take that gun -- it will have her lover’s fingerprints on it. He has been her contact, her Abwehr liaison.”

  One of the guards removed the pistol and sniffed it. “It’s been fired recently.”

  “This is obscene!” Queen Fontaine said. Her face was locked and rigid, her eyes darting like those of a trapped animal. “Vulgar nonsense!”

  Lynch wondered what it would look like if he ripped out the Grand Vizier’s throat with his hook. It was a very fatty, wobbly throat, and the skin looked pink and plump. A lot of blood in there.

  “I can confirm it,” said a new voice.

  More gasps and sounds of amazement filled the chamber as a ragged figure staggered in through the far doorway -- none other than Prince Michael. His chest was heavily bandaged and a nurse walked to either side, supporting him.

  “That’s the scum who shot me, I would recognize him anywhere -- but she’s the one who told him to fire,” Michael said.

  Queen Fontaine slumped backward. Lynch caught her. Royal Guards surrounded them. Superhuman, Lynch thought, eyeing Michael with new respect. I should have aimed for the head.

  “I think we can take these off now,” the Grand Vizier said, rattling his handcuffs behind him, and the captain of the guard unlocked him. Lynch and the Grand Vizier exchanged a long, unpleasant look.

  Just then, the bombs stopped.

  Chapter 18

  Eliza remembered a time when she was young. She and Lynch had been sneaking around the forest near her father’s castle when they had come upon a certain tree -- a great, big, twisted monster clawing at the sky, thick and knotty, with huge fat roots like writhing pythons slithering into the rich black earth. Eliza had pointed to a gnarled limb way up near the top and said, “Father says that’s where the fairies live. They work with the bees and every year they help the bees make the finest honey in the land. When Father sends out his men every year to gather honeycombs, they always make a special visit to this tree. Mother says honey by moonlight is magic, because that’s when the fairy dust is freshest.”

  Lynch looked up at the tree and said, “I’ll bring it down, and then we’ll have your magic honey by moonlight.”

  “Oh, no, Lynch, it’s much too dangerous!”

  But of course she had let him. They had been twelve. While she stayed below and gasped and swayed, the young, nimble Lynch had scampered up the tree, at times having to maneuver around a boll or particularly knotty limb, but at last he reached that certain special limb and the bulb that hung from its further reaches. Like a monkey he had shimmied out onto that limb -- it must have been a ten meter drop -- and Eliza had cried out her alarm and admiration below. He snatched the entire bee hive, tucked it under his arm, and started back down the tree. He didn’t get far before he started screaming. He nearly fell the last few meters because he kept swatting at the encircling bees. Finally he tumbled off, gathered himself up, grabbed her by the hand and ran.

  “But Lynch, you’ve still got the hive!” she pointed out as bees stung her viciously. The hive rested securely under Lynch’s arm.

  “I didn’t go through this for nothing!” he said. He promptly tore out a piece of the hive, dropped the rest, and they ran. Honey dripped from his fingers and from the thick piece he carried.

  Agony filled Eliza as a hundred bee stings bit at her, and she said, “You fool! I’ll never speak to you again!”

  Lynch led her to a hollow tree, and they crouched inside while the bees fumed without. Huddling in the darkness, waiting for the bees to retire, they had glared at each other and nursed their wounds. Then, slowly, they began eating the rich, gooey heaven of the honeycomb. With pain-filled fingers Eliza brought the honeycomb to her bee-stung lips, and she wept as she ate every bite, but it was the best thing she had ever eaten.

  “Still mad at me?” he said.

  “Oh, Lynchmort James,” she sighed, licking the honey from her fingers, “why did I have to fall in love with the bravest, stupidest boy that ever lived?”

  When her father saw her the next morning covered in bee stings, he flew into a rage. It was likely the beginning of his hatred for Lynch.

  But as the Bone Men swarmed up from the depths of earth, all Eliza could think of was that moment when she and Lynch had run shrieking from the bees. They had disturbed the creatures’ lair, and the bees were livid.

  ***

  The Bone Men emerged more quickly than she had expected. Almost before she stopped banging the bars to summon them, their growls and moans chilled her blood, and she fled into the great dark chamber. A few lights powered by a back-up generator prevented her from crashing into desks and lab tables, but darkness still held the chamber in a firm grasp.

  When the people in Sector One heard the coming of the Bone Men, Eliza could almost feel their fear in the air. Could almost taste it. Then the first Bone Men poured from their hole, and the screaming began.

  Eliza, panting and horrified, located one of the chambers holding the test subjects and climbed high into the scaffolding that allowed access to the upper cages. The wretches that were strong enough howled and beat at their bars in response to the coming of the Bone Men, and the sounds further chilled her. She found a place to curl up in, on a wooden platform way up high, and waited there, shivering and trying not to weep.

  It was the only way, she told herself. The only way!

  Yet, as the sounds of screaming and snarling continued, she pictured the faces of those being torn apart. She had worked with these men and women for months now, built up relationships with some of them, and here she was, condemning them to brutal death.

  But all other options had been expended. Her solution accomplished two main goals. It killed Higgins’s troopers, who had been just behind her -- they would have been the first to die. They knew of her true allegiance and could not be allowed to live should the Society continue to function. Also, it threw the Society into such chaos that it might just collapse, or have its plans delayed. She meant to kill the Society, and Lord Wilhelm, before they could launch the Ascendance, whatever it was, and this was the only way she could think to do it. Putting a bullet in Wilhelm’s head would do no good because Lars or someone would just put a bullet in hers in response, and the Society would continue. This way, awful as it was . . . maybe . . .

  Sounds of gunfire peppered the screaming, and she knew the troopers were moving against the Bone Men. But the creatures had struck unexpectedly, and the troopers were uncoordinated. The Bone Men were fewer in number, but their thick bones made them hard to kill and they saw well in darkness. Eliza tried not to feel pity for the SS troopers and the others being torn apart -- they were all Nazis and Nazi sympathizers -- but the screams continued, and she felt her eyes sting, and her chest rack.

  Finally organized gunfire split the chaos -- a dozen or more guns acting in unison. Eliza climbed partway down and peered into main chamber. A party of troopers had emerged from the Black Sector, and with brutal efficiency they laid waste to the Bone Men that swarmed at them. At their head strode a tall, silver-haired figure -- Lord Wilhelm, it had to be -- and he led them through the carnage without slowing. To Eliza’s surprise, he did not direct them to suppress the violence, only cut through it.

  Acting quickly, she descended from the scaffolding and, with gun in hand, slipped through the darkness of the halls. She put herself between Lord Wilhelm and the lift. Soon enough he arrived at the head of his troopers. Electric torches shone on her face, and she squinted into the light.

  “Lady de Courtney!” he called. “Well met.”

  She shaded her eyes with the ha
nd not holding the gun. “Lord Wilhelm?”

  “The dirigible is to meet us at the top of the hotel. The pilot never arrived at the dock chamber. The creatures must have got him. If you think you can resist the urge to allow saboteurs to destroy the dirigible, you may helm the ship.”

  She blinked. “You came up here to find me?”

  “I’m sure I can find someone else if you have plans.”

  “No no!” He had continued striding forward, and she fell into step beside him. “I’ll be happy to pilot the craft -- my lord.”

  Lars Gunnerson walked just behind Lord Wilhelm, and his pet Fieglund trailed along behind him, cadaverous as ever.

  “Where is Commander Higgins?” Lars asked. “I had expected him to come oozing out of the darkness by now.”

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I do hope he’s okay.”

  They found the lift. Someone had summoned it but been torn apart before they could use it. It took two trips for the entire party to be carried to the basement of the hotel, and from there they took the lift to the penthouse. Again, it took two trips. Standing in the lift beside Lars, Eliza asked, “Aren’t we going to help them? The people . . . the Bone Men . . . ”

  Lars curled his lip disdainfully. “The Sectors are irrelevant now. The Brookshire operation existed to find and translate the inscription on the Queen’s mausoleum. That has been done. Whatever side projects we were pursuing will proceed much faster now, and we no longer need the labs. Let the Bone Men clean up our mess for us. Then they will starve and it will be over.”

  The finality and coldness of his tone shocked her. Even she had not meant to slaughter every last member of the Society, only kill enough of them to throw them into such confusion that their plans could no longer proceed. She was shaky and sweaty by the time they emerged into the penthouse -- what had been her home for the past several months -- and passed through it quickly to the roof. She took one look around her, at the luxury and comforts, the couches, the antique dining table, the silk hangings, and she realized she would never see this place again. She did not even have time to pack a bag.

  They climbed onto the roof, and a stiff breeze stirred her hair, made her shudder.

  The dirigible’s small crew had wrestled the ship through the air from the bay -- the same bay the Eva Braun had lifted off from -- and somehow moored it to the hotel roof, but it was clear they didn’t know what they were doing. Once aboard, Eliza seized control and corrected several of their mistakes.

  “Stow everything,” she ordered. “Look at everything not tied down. And for God’s sake release the aft ballast!”

  Lord Wilhelm watched her, his face unreadable. Wind swept through his hair, ruffled his clothes, but he stood strong against it, and she thought of wind weathering a mountain, or trying to.

  “Where to?” she said, taking the wheel.

  “The Palace. Of course.”

  ***

  The destruction of Gaston shocked her. The bombing campaign must just have ended when they happened upon it. Smoke billowed up from countless buildings, obscuring the stars in great torrents, and fire engines raced below, lights flashing, sirens peeling, audible even up here. She and Lynch may have saved Gaston from total destruction, but the Nazis had wounded it greatly. Save for the fires, the city was black. Only the Palace still retained power. It had been turned off but, as Eliza guided the dirigible closer to where she knew it to be, the power returned, and the Palace blazed with life, naked now that the bombing was over. Its grand towers and massive dome stood bathed in illumination, but even here the destruction of the bombing extended. Eliza saw three gaping, blackened holes in the royal building, and smoke issued from one of them. She prayed Queen Fontaine had survived. And Lynch, if he had made it this far.

  “Dock there,” Lord Wilhelm instructed, indicating a tower. It was not the tower of the Queen but another, lesser tower; Eliza thought it might be the Prince’s. She guided the dirigible toward the balcony that extended from the uppermost suite.

  “Aren’t you afraid we’ll be fired on?” she asked.

  Wilhelm stared straight ahead. “We are expected.”

  She realized then that he counted on the Prince to have taken control, and that, since no one had fired on them yet, Michael must indeed have wrested the crown from Fontaine. Eliza tried not to show her despair.

  “May I ask what we’re to do at the Palace? I know the Sarcophagus is there. Are we to retrieve it?”

  “You’ll see,” he said.

  She wanted to plunge the dirigible into the ground and kill them all; it would certainly prevent whatever evil Wilhelm meant to pursue. But they watched her too closely and she knew she had no chance. The crackle of the balloon sounded above, and the propellers made whipping noises as they shoved the craft forward. The mesh-and-wood gondola creaked and swayed.

  Two figures waited for them on the terrace. As she moored the dirigible, she recognized them as Prince Michael and the Grand Vizier. Several members of the Royal Guard waited within.

  Lord Wilhelm disembarked, and Lars Gunnerson and Eliza followed.

  “Graf, it is good to finally meet you,” said Prince Michael. He nodded his head but did not bow.

  Lord Wilhelm returned the nod, his head inclining less than the Prince’s. “You as well, Prince -- or is it King now?” He still spoke French.

  Michael smiled. He switched to French, as well, a clear indication of who was more powerful. “Only Prince, as yet. No ceremony has been conducted.” He touched his chest gingerly, and Eliza saw that a bandage wrapped it. He winced when he moved the arm. “There was a slight mishap. Some saboteur . . .”

  “Lynchmort!” said Eliza. She cleared her throat when the others turned to her. “The same man that bombed the Eva Braun, surely.”

  “He has one eye, one hand,” the Grand Vizier said.

  Lars’s eyes glittered. “I hope he has not been killed.”

  “No. He and Queen Fontaine are under house arrest in her tower. There were too many witnesses at the time for there to be any other outcome, but it accomplishes our ends well enough.”

  Wilhelm looked impatient. “So it does. Shall we be off?” He paused, and looked at Lars. “I trust you would rather witness the Awakening than attend to your vengeance? I give you leave to go if otherwise.”

  Lars visibly struggled. Air hissed from between his teeth. “I will see the Awakening. We have worked so long for it. Sister would not want me to miss it.”

  Without another word, Wilhelm strode inside. The others scrambled after him. Half the troopers remained with the dirigible and half followed them in. Combined with the Royal Guard, fully a dozen troops escorted Wilhelm and the others down through the Palace.

  Eliza’s head swam. Queen Fontaine was alive, and so was Lynch, and here she was, on the way to the sarcophagus of the Queen of Atlantis. Could the Awakening really mean what it sounded like? Surely not!

  The Palace seemed deserted, their footfalls echoing for long moments around them. The guests of the ball must have been sent home. What had seemed like blazing light from outside was actually quite dim inside. Only a few lamps and chandeliers lit the halls.

  “This way, Graf,” said the Prince, showing Wilhelm down the stairs. He walked beside Wilhelm, but Wilhelm never slowed, almost as if he had been to the Palace before and knew it intimately. He gave every indication of knowing precisely where he went.

  They descended level by level, and Eliza felt colder as they went. At last they passed beneath ground level and entered the vast, dark royal catacombs. The electric torches carried by the troopers cast glints off the mausoleums and monuments that loomed all around, throwing sinister shadows across the stone walls. Eliza had always hated catacombs. The stone faces of the dead stared back at her. Angels and demons and gargoyles leered from the facades of grand tombs. Their features shifted and moved in the strange lights.

  Wilhelm stopped before the centerpiece of the catacombs. The others drew about him, marveling. Troopers shone lights o
n it.

  Eliza’s jaw dropped open. What stood before her must be the Sarcophagus of the Queen, but it resembled no sarcophagus she had ever seen. It reared from the center of the catacombs like a fist of jade. Lights winked off its greenish, multifaceted façade. The center of it loomed like an upright jewel wrought of jade, tall and proud. Strange, eerie, rib-like structures arced off it, four to a side, like the legs of a spider, or like the skeletal remains of an angel’s wings. It was fascinating, horrifying. Eliza’s breath caught in her throat.

  A jewel winked at the end of each of the jutting rib-things, all of different colors -- sapphire, turquoise, crimson, lavender. Wilhelm studied them, then set about climbing the Sarcophagus -- carefully, reverently. By cautiously touching the rib-things in select places, applying certain pressures, he loosed the jewels and removed them, one by one, in what seemed like a precise sequence.

  “Give me space,” he said. “The next part is quite difficult.”

  They moved back. Wilhelm studied the Sarcophagus, frowning, then began touching it again, almost like a lover. Sections of it opened to him, and he began placing the jewels in various nodes. The whole thing began to glow. He took his time, only performing each procedure very deliberately.

  Lars lit a thin black cigar, and he and Fieglund withdrew near the mausoleum of an ancient king.

  Eliza followed. “Is it really . . . her?”

  Lars eyed her from behind his red glasses. “It is. Queen Iasolla. Last queen of Atlantis. What a woman she must have been! She escaped its Fall and attempted to reestablish her culture on the mainland. Attempted to recreate its lost technologies.” Wistfully, he added, “She was the mistress of lost arts, of arcane sciences and alchemies. A brilliant mind, by all accounts.”

  “Why does Wilhelm want her body?”

  “He does not want her body. He wants her. She will wake, and she will rule.”