Amidst Dark Satanic Mills (Folkestone & Hand Interplanetary Steampunk Adventures Book 2)

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  The Deadly Tentacles of MEDUSA!

  The body of a rogue French scientist is found floating in a canal of Syrtis Major, center of the British presence on Mars. What at first seems like a local crime, under the jurisdiction of the Court of the Red Prince, soon becomes an interplanetary mystery, a clue to an unsuspected supra-national organization called MEDUSA. Its goal is to destroy the Pax Britannia that has maintained peace and prosperity in the Solar System. From the canals of Mars to the valleys of Mercury, two intrepid British agents, aided by the best minds of the Empire, set themselves against the assassins and technologists of MEDUSA. If they do not succeed, the stabilizing hand of the British Empire will be replaced by the iron glove of MEDUSA, and the Nineteenth Century will end with the all the worlds of the Solar System controlled by a despotic regime, one that will bring order through terror, murder and destruction.

  Also by Ralph E Vaughan:

  Paws & Claws Series

  Paws & Claws: A Three Dog Mystery (Paws & Claws #1)

  A Flight of Raptors (Paws & Claws #2)

  K-9 Blues (Paws & Claws #3)

  The Death & Life of an American Dog (Paws & Claws #4)

  The Dog Who Loved Sherlock Holmes (Paws & Claws Special)

  Sherlock Holmes Adventures

  Sherlock Holmes: The Coils of Time & Other Stories

  Sherlock Holmes in The Adventure of the Ancient Gods

  Sherlock Holmes in The Dreaming Detective

  Sherlock Holmes in The Coils of Time (Gryphon Books)

  Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures

  Sherlock Holmes in The Terror Out of Time

  Professor Challenger in Secret of the Dreamlands

  Folkestone & Hand Interplanetary Steampunk Adventures

  Shadows Against the Empire (Folkestone & Hand #1)

  Other Works

  Reflections on Elder Egypt (nonfiction)

  HP Lovecraft in the Comics (nonfiction)

  Life & Death in the Alien’s Universe (literary criticism)

  Oh, Mr Yoda! (play, with Patricia E Vaughan)

  The Horses of Byzantium & Other Poems (poetry)

  Midnight for Schrödinger’s Cat (poetry)

  Beneath Strange Stars (short story collection)

  As Editor and/or Illustrator

  The Many Worlds of Duane Rimel (Duane Rimel)

  The Second Book of Rimel (Duane Rimel)

  Dreams of Yith (Duane Rimel)

  Fungi From Yuggoth (HP Lovecraft; with Nick Petrosino)

  Martian Twilight (John Eric Holmes, with David Barker)

  Ancient Nights (anthology)

  Beneath Twin Moons (anthology)

  Fantastic Realms (anthology)

  A Walk in the Dark (anthology)

  Lost Lands (anthology)

  Amidst Dark Satanic Mills

  The Steampunk Adventures of

  Folkestone & Hand #2

  by

  Ralph E Vaughan

  Dog in the Night Books

  2015

  Amidst Dark Satanic Mills

  (Folkestone & Hand #2)

  ©2015 by Ralph E Vaughan

  All Rights Reserved

  Note: Until satellite exploration, most scientists believed in a Solar System like the one in this book. One half of Mercury eternally faced the Sun, the other half was in darkness, with a “twilight zone” between. Venus was obscured by clouds, but the planet was thought to have lush jungles, towering mountains and vast oceans. We knew it was hot, but not as hot as it turned out. If there beyond Earth, we expected it on Mars, a world of vast deserts, polar caps, and water-carrying channels. The ideas of mid-Twentieth Century scientists were not much different than their Victorian counterparts, even to believing in the aether, a odorless and tasteless substance permeating all space and matter. And they gave consideration to the existence of at least one small, mysterious planet in orbit between the Sun and Mercury. This steampunk novel takes place in an alternate universe where Victorian scientific theories are reality, and the Solar System quite a bit more interesting than ours. There is, however, one difference. The Victorians in this book know about Pluto…after all, they’ve been there.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to Carlos Carrion, friend, co-explorer of the Solar System at Castle Park High School, when the planets could still be what we made them, at least till Mr McGee cruelly expelled us from the library…until they opened again the next morning.

  To follow me on Facebook:

  https://www.facebook.com/RalphEVaughan

  To remain updated about my Paws & Claws series:

  https://www.facebook.com/007paws

  To find me on Twitter:

  @RalphTheWriter

  And did those feet in ancient time

  Walk upon England's mountains green?

  And was the holy Lamb of God

  On England's pleasant pastures seen?

  And did the Countenance Divine

  Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

  And was Jerusalem builded here

  Among these dark Satanic Mills?

  Bring me my bow of burning gold:

  Bring me my arrows of desire:

  Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold!

  Bring me my chariot of fire.

  I will not cease from mental fight,

  Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand

  Till we have built Jerusalem

  In England's green and pleasant land.

  —William Blake

  Prologue

  They come from out the blackness!

  The thought flitted amongst the Drassa like lightning across a summer field, causing them to flicker and phase. In their concern and confusion, they opened and closed portals.

  The Cold Ones are but coarse matter!

  Metal that did not flow, metal molded to unnatural shapes, swooped from out the shadows, moved from death to life, bearing in their bellies strange creatures. At first, the Drassa could not believe the things disgorged from the hollow shapes were living beings with their many skins, their dull intellects, the fluids that moved within them without boiling.

  The Cold Ones come from the Outer Darkness!

  But, living beings or not, even the most skeptical Drassa was forced to admit these strange visitors from the deadly outer realms were animate in the most terrible ways. They gouged the shadowed ground with other unnatural shapes and raised containers in which they dwelled away from the Great Source.

  They move in and out of the Light!

  Out upon the Shining Plain they bore great holes, and from the holes rose black towers. They did not reflect the light, these titanic spires but were like extrusions of the shadow from the dark heart of the planet, though the Drassa had only a vague concept of what a planet was, for the universe beyond their own millennial home was a vast and unknowable expanse.

  They will disturb the Breath of Life.

  The Cold Ones build upon the Plain of Eternity…

  The Portal will not open for the Cold Ones…

  They wield strange energies.

  The Cold Ones will not stop.

  We cannot approach them…

  Their touch is death…

  Their blood is ice.

  The ways of the Drassa were slow and deliberate. In all their millions of years of consciousness, they had never rushed to either judgment or action. They endlessly debated every point, every thought, every moment of their existence. They eternally argued all things, from the continuously morphing songs
of the Great Source to the nature of the flotsam and jetsam that occasionally fell to their world from the Outer Darkness.

  This is not the first time!

  Indeed, it was not the first time strange invaders had emerged from the lifeless Outer Darkness, but that had been so long ago that it strained even the memories of the archivists of the Drassa. It had been different then, when the orbs of the Outer Darkness followed different paths. But those beings had not been Cold Ones. While the invaders were nothing like the fire and light of the Drassa, they were yet quickened to life, like wavering flames from the Primordial Forge. Those ancient beings who moved amongst the Drassa like scintillating sparks had not stayed. They departed leaving only a warning: Beware the Cold Ones for they are Death.

  After ages beyond number, the Cold Ones had finally come.

  For the first time since the Quickening, the Drassa experienced an emotion alien to their nature—fear.

  But even fear could not change their most basic nature, which was to examine and enquire, to contemplate and conjecture, to debate and deliberate. They flitted among the black towers. They examined the structures, the crafts and, as far as they were able, the aliens that moved among them.

  One of the Cold Ones is a spark….

  He listens…

  He dreams and whispers…

  Hear him…

  The Mills…

  The Dark Satanic Mills…

  Chapter 1

  The Sun never set.

  That, Martin thought as he stood in the observation dome peering through heavily tinted crystal, was the hardest thing to get used to, for he had always prized darkness. It forever hung at the horizon, looming like a Titan of antiquity, who had threatened Creation in the mythic hymns of all cultures.

  On Earth, the Sun was warm and friendly, never more than a bright distant disc, even when it shimmered large upon the sea. But, here, the Sun raged and fumed. It was bloated and mottled, and flames continually shot from its ragged disc. But, of course, it was no ordinary fire of incineration. Even with something as large as the Sun, mere combustion would have resulted in a dead black cinder long before the advent of life on Earth.

  Not for the first time, Martin wondered about the powers of the Solar System, the unseen and unknown manifestations that seemed forever beyond the reach of science. It was all a façade, he knew, a thin veneer hiding a reality that would certainly drive anyone mad.

  The true nature of the blazing solar fires, he thought, and the ghosts that walk. Who can known them but I?

  Of course, such things were beyond his concern, the province of his betters, he was often told. As a Machine Clerk, his world was one of gears and cogs, flywheels and counterweights, complex codes and calculations. If MEDUSA needed to solve the mysteries of the universe, they would call upon one of their own scientists or naturalists, or simply kidnap one. He was only good at numbers.

  The landscape of this small world seemed barren, totally devoid of life, but Martin was often unsure of that obvious fact. Yes, he knew this facility, settled in the foothills between unending day and eternal night, was the only habitation upon the world, that the array of black towers rising on the plain before him were the only other structures. When he would make some sly comment, testing the intellects and imaginations of his fellow toilers beneath the Sun, he would garner nervous or mocking expressions, head shakes and muttered comments. They were all alone beneath the Sun, they said, all very self-evident, of course, and yet…

  And yet, he thought, pressing his palms and forehead against the surprisingly cool transparent material. And yet there are still the ghosts and the voices whispering dread secrets.

  “Don’t you have some work to do, Mr Martin?” a voice asked from behind.

  The Machine Clerk turned about, saw a thin man with a huge moustache that made him look ridiculous. He wore the same brown tunic they all wore, the black insignia of MEDUSA on his breast, but his was supplemented by a thin blue bar indicating his status as Machine Supervisor.

  “I am waiting for some test codes to finish their sequence, Mr Laplace,” Martin replied.

  “Surely there is something else you can do while waiting,” the Machine Supervisor suggested.

  Martin smiled, tapping his temple twice with his forefinger. “I am solving some probability equations I was asked to calculate.”

  “Asked by whom?” Laplace queried. No one had passed any requests through him, which was required by protocol.

  Martin’s smile widened, but only on one side, giving his head a rather lopsided appearance even as it seemed reptilian.

  “Lord Khallimar, of course,” Martin murmured. “Were you not informed? I thought you had been.”

  “I seem to recall His Lordship mentioning something about it,” Laplace said after a minute. “I did not question him closely, of course, since he said he was…”

  Martin had already stopped listening, had returned to gazing out the dome, watching the ghosts as they flitted among the towers.

  “Carry on then,” Laplace said. “In the future, though, keep me informed about any outside projects you are assigned.”

  “Of course, Mr Laplace,” Martin replied.

  A light suddenly flared in the darkness, arcing across the void toward the landing area set well back from the terminator’s edge.

  “An aethership?” Laplace exclaimed. “There are no approaches scheduled for today.”

  “I believe it’s Lord Khallimar’s aethership,” Martin said.

  “What! I…” Laplace sputtered. “Return to your chamber and complete your calculations, Mr Martin. Please restrict your presence in the observation dome to non-work hours.”

  “As you wish, Mr Laplace,” Martin murmured.

  The Machine Clerk glanced at the plain, then turned and left.

  Laplace watched the Machine Clerk leave the observation dome. He did not care for Martin at all, and would have sacked him long ago, had the decision been left to him. He did not like Martin’s glassy eyes, his watery gaze, his oddly shaped elfin face, or the way he always seemed to lurk about. There was something disgusting about the man, something he could not quite explain, not to himself and certainly not to his superiors, but the feeling he derived when dealing with Martin was the same sensation he felt as a lad when he and his mates found a nest of water-vipers at the edge of a tarn.

  They had stomped that nest to death.

  He looked back to the approaching aethership. It was indeed Lord Khallimar’s personal craft. Damn!

  Laplace turned and smartly departed the dome. As the leader of the Machine Section, it was important he stand with the Director when their master arrived.

  A few moments later, Martin edged cautiously back into the dome. He glanced disinterestedly at the aethership as it passed close by, then returned his attention to the plain of Mills.

  The ghosts are walking today, he thought. I wonder if they are curious about His Lordship.

  After a few minutes, Martin left the dome and returned to his chamber, but not because of anything Laplace had said. Already, his conversation with the Machine Supervisor was fading from his mind, like whispers from another room. He returned because he had finished his calculations and needed to write them down before Lord Khallimar asked for them. After all, the man who held all their lives in his hands was but a mere mortal, and, as he did for all others, Martin had to make allowances for such limited creatures.

  A small ding indicated the Great Machine had finished running the coded sequences he had input earlier. Martin was examining the results of the sequences when the door opened and a man entered, one twice his size, very dark, with long black hair and an imperial, wearing a black suit and a bowler. His shoulders barely fit through the doorway and he waited for Martin to notice him.

  “Lord Khallimar wants the results of the calculations,” the man finally said, a note of impatience in his voice.

  After a measured moment, Martin looked up from the vellum pages printed by the Machine. His watery expr
ession did not change when he saw the man’s frown.

  “Oh, there you are, Ahriman,” Martin said mildly, returning to his study of the Machine’s output. “I did not hear you enter.”

  Ahriman’s frown deepened, till it seemed his face was on the verge of shattering. He took a half step toward the small Machine Clerk, leaning forward a bit, but Martin continued reading.

  “I suppose you’ve come for the final results of the equations,” Martin sighed, setting aside the code sequencing papers.

  “Yes, His Lordship is anxious to receive them,” the giant said.

  “I’m sure he is,” Martin replied as he rose from behind his desk and went to a locked cabinet. “They are quite peculiar, you know.”

  “No, I do not,” asserted Ahriman. “His Lordship’s business is his own, and it is not prudent to question it.”

  Martin turned the ornate brass key in the lock. “No, I suppose it isn’t.” He reached inside and withdrew the pages he had written so quickly in longhand. “But they are quite peculiar.”

  He returned to his desk, folded the thick parchment pages and placed them in an envelope. Using an electric-lucifer, he heated a taper of red sealing wax, dribbled a sufficient amount upon the fold-over, then pressed his personal seal into the wax. Martin proffered it to the servant, then withdrew it slightly as he reached for it.

  “I thought Lord Khallimar might come personally,” Martin said airily. “I could explain the results to him, answer any questions.”

  Ahriman leaned forward, grabbed the envelope and yanked it roughly from Martin’s limp grip. He was infuriated by the Machine Clerk’s impertinence, and even more by his limpid smile, as if he were privy to some amusement, possibly at Ahriman’s expense. In his homeland of Mesopotamia, Ahriman would have rewarded the man’s insolence with the back of his hand, at the very least, and it was all he could do now to keep from giving him such a back-hand that would send man and chair flying against the metal wall. But he controlled himself, took in a deep breath, ignoring the antiseptic tang of the processed atmosphere, then let it out slowly.