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

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “Like Captain Folkestone, Sergeant Felix Hand is on temporary assignment to the Admiralty,” Baphor-Ta said evenly.

  “Felix Hand?” the merchant exclaimed, his eyes startled wide. “That is as grotesque as it is offensive and ridiculous. The creature is obviously a Martian, an uncouth Highlander by the looks of him. What kind of name is Felix Hand, and why is he wearing…”

  Baphor-Ta leaped from the camp-chair, pushing it back, nearly upsetting it. He glared down at the corpulent merchant, who fell silent as his mouth fell open. As the investigator stared downward, his crystal and brass left eye clicked and whirred, an indication of the emotions seething behind it.

  He placed a hand on each arm of Phylus-Zant’s camp-chair, leaning forward, forcing the merchant to draw back. When he could lean back no further their eyes were mere inches apart. For the first time that morning, the arrogance and contempt in Phylus-Zant’s eyes gave way to fear and apprehension. Baphor-Ta wanted to smile in triumph, but he dared not.

  “Your eye is a magnificent display of an artificer’s skill,” the merchant squeaked nervously, “but it is quite disconcerting.”

  Baphor-Ta stared silently at Phylus-Zant, then, after a long moment, reached up and tapped the breast of his own tunic. Instead of the expected sound, however, Phylus-Zant heard the solid clank-clank of metal. The merchant’s eyes shot even wider as he realized that the royal scarlet of Baphor-Ta’s high-collared tunic concealed not a chest of flesh and bone, but one of brass and steel. He had always suspected Baphor-Ta’s favoritism toward the British over his fellow Martians was more for personal reasons than any show of support for the interplanetary policies of the Red Prince, and now he was sure of it.

  “It is a name of his own choosing and one he bears with great honor,” Baphor-Ta said, “just as he wears his uniform.”

  “But…but…the idea of a Martian, even a Highlander, serving in the British military is…well, it’s absurd,” Phylus-Zant sputtered.

  “Her Britannic Majesty Queen Victoria does not think it at all absurd, and neither does the Red Prince,” the Chief Investigator said evenly. “Both those monarchs have received Captain Folkestone and Sergeant Hand, and awarded the highest honors of two planets.”

  Baphor-Ta pulled back, allowing the merchant to return to a normal sitting position, which resulted in a very pained expression as he shifted his injured posterior. He examined the look of uncertainty upon the man’s face, then finally allowed his repressed smile to find its way to the surface, but still veiled in subtlety.

  “I am surprised the Red Prince’s third cousin’s nephew did not mention it to you,” Baphor-Ta murmured. “Now, if you will excuse me, Honorable Phylus-Zant, I must confer with my colleagues.” He turned away, started for the boarding plank, then paused and looked back. “Please don’t go anywhere, as we still have much to discuss.”

  “Where would I go?” Phylus-Zant snarled. “And how? You sent away my slave, and I am too grievously injured to move about on my own.”

  “Shall I summon the coroner again?”

  “Bah!”

  When Baphor-Ta turned from the addled merchant, he did not bother hiding his grin. By the time he reached Folkestone and Hand, however, he once more had it under control. While these two men were indeed his friends, more often than not, they were still outsiders to the Court and representatives of an alien government. Although Baphor-Ta’s job within the Court of the Red Price was more straightforward and uncomplicated than most, he was not free of the plots and intrigues, conspiracies and machinations that were part of everyday life in the Court; not only that, he had more than his share of enemies, both for cause and from envy, and there were the priestly class and various sects who were always, it seemed, up to something and trying to involve the Chief Investigator as a proxy persecutor of their enemies and rivals

  “Good morning, Chief Investigator,” Folkestone said, noting a guard within hearing distance.

  “Hello, Baphor-Ta, you old devil,” Hand greeted, earning a scowl from the Court official and an elbow from his Captain.

  “Thank you for coming so promptly,” Baphor-Ta said. He explained the circumstances and the personalities involved. “I do not believe you will know the deceased simply because he is a human, but it must be explored before it can be dismissed.”

  “We’ll be glad to take a look,” Folkestone replied. “But as you say, the chances are low, even if he is a British subject, something these days that cannot be taken for granted.”

  “Yes,” Baphor-Ta agreed. “Many of my people see a human on the streets of Syrtis Major and assume automatically he is British, but I have noticed an increase of visitors from the other Great Powers, especially the Germans and the French.”

  “Blasted frogs!” Hand muttered.

  “Tolerance, Hand,” Folkestone warned with an indulgent smile. “After all, they are our allies.”

  Sergeant Hand scowled. “For the time being, and only as long as it suits them.”

  Baphor-Ta looked from human to Martian and back. Despite his job and the byzantine world through which he moved, he was not a political creature at heart, never truly understood the shifting nature of alliances of convenience, even though he often made use of such people himself. Often, he wondered what it would be like to run a police agency free of political and religious intrigues.

  He suspected there was no such agency on any of the worlds in the Solar System. He doubted even Scotland Yard, of which he had heard so much from terrestrial acquaintances, and read even more of in the penny dreadfuls popular among the literate classes of Mars, was truly its own master, an avenging Nemesis who bowed to no authority but justice.

  “Well, shall we take a look at the body, then?”

  “Lead on, Macduff,” Hand urged, earning another elbow.

  “Sergeant Hand recently started reading the plays of the Bard,” Captain Folkestone explained.

  “Macbeth,” Hand said proudly.

  “Then, should it not be, ‘Lay on, Macduff,’ Sergeant Hand?” the Chief Investigator asked dryly.

  Hand’s expansive brow furrowed, but he made no reply.

  “This way please.”

  Hand, the only Martian in Her Majesty’s 63rd Martian Rifles, shrugged at the correction, but still said nothing.

  Baphor-Ta smiled thinly at the short, barrel-chested Martian. Unlike other Lowlanders, he did not harbor any ill will toward their Highland cousins, though he knew the same could not be said of Hand, who was a man of intense passions and sharp opinions, though it was usually he himself, and not others, who ended up poked by those opinions. Like most Highlanders, he thought Lowlanders soft and plodding, addicted to gross sensualities and excessive luxuries, dim-witted due to an overindulgence in the oxygen that tended to gather along the canals and across the plains. Such a simple-minded outlook was, of course, an overstatement and a gross simplification of an entire race. On the other hand, however, when Lowlanders were represented by such shining examples as Phylus-Zant, it became a stereotype difficult to deny.

  For Lowlanders, the vision of a Highlander was a hot-headed savage addicted to war, a chanter of never-ending poetic epics exalting the mythic battles of the past, and an imbiber of copious tankards of home-brewed ale. That view was not dispelled if one took Sergeant Felix Hand as a representative of Highland ideals, though over the years his taste had shifted toward segir, the potent whiskey imported from Venus. As to their addiction to war, twenty thousand years of bloody history spoke quite eloquently, and also explained why the various Princes of Mars exclusively drew their personal guards from their Highland subjects.

  Folkestone was amused by the two very different Martians. To him, they were both good friends and boon companions.

  Captain Robert Folkestone received his commission in the First Space Dragoons, but, like Hand, was more commonly used by the Admiralty as a troubleshooter, sent on one mission or another by Lord Admiral Sir Geoffrey Barrington-Welles, First Space Lord. That Folkestone and Hand happened to
be on Mars, much less in Syrtis Major, when Baphor-Ta’s messenger arrived was due only to an uncommon lull between disasters.

  Folkestone was tall, slender and dark-haired. He naturally had the bearing most military men spent their lives cultivating but never quite achieving. He was kind to those who deserved his kindness, forgiving to everyone but fools, could be ruthless when a situation absolutely demanded it, and could usually focus on the task at hand. He generally kept his opinions locked up next to his emotions, and rarely found reason to display either.

  Baphor-Ta motioned to the nearest guard, who reached down and lifted a corner of the tarpaulin, then stepped aside. Folkestone and Hand squatted by the side of the dead man while Baphor-Ta took a step back to afford them more room.

  The man was very tall, well over six feet, and extremely thin, to the point of being skeletal. His hair was jet, very thick, and he wore a Vandyke and a pencil-moustache. He wore common work clothes of sturdy fabric, and heavy shoes with soles of thick natural rubber. His skin was white as bleached bone, and Folkestone doubted his coloring had anything to with his immersion in the canal. In the center of his alabaster forehead was a neat round hole, the result of a small caliber bullet. There was no exit wound and no stippling, both of which argued for an attack from some distance, but, by the same token, the bullet could have simply ricocheted around in the skull and any gunpowder traces might have been washed away by the water.

  “He was not in the canal very long, I take it,” Folkestone said.

  “We will know more after the necropsy, but I agree,” Baphor-Ta said. “A lack of consumption by carrion eaters.”

  “He doesn’t look English,” Hand said.

  “No, he doesn’t,” Folkestone agreed. “Not the beard so much as the moustaches. The fashion leans toward clean-shaven or an over-abundance of facial hair. Perhaps the Continent.”

  “His clothes argue for a disregard of fashion,” Baphor-Ta said.

  “They are simple enough, not flashy in any way, but see how they are not worn at all,” Folkestone pointed out.

  “Except for some stains, they seem almost new, sir,” Hand agreed. “Same as those shoes, not hardly scuffed, they are.”

  “The clothes of a workman, but definitely not a workman.” Folkestone lifted the dead man’s right arm. “No calluses, no broken nails, no cracked cuticles. Whatever he did for a living, however he got those stains on his clothes, it did not involve manual labor.”

  “Clothes don’t the man this time, do they, sir?” Hand quipped. “But I’d bet five bob he’s up from the continent. Humans may dress down, but they keep their faces fashionable, and those skinny moustaches are definitely continental.”

  “Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we?” Baphor-Ta said. “So, you can state officially that he is not known to you?”

  The two British officers stood and nodded.

  “Since we are rather between assignments at the moment, we’d be happy to keep poking around if you like,” Folkestone offered. “Someone has to know him.”

  “I was hoping you would say that,” Baphor-Ta replied. “Until the deceased is identified, the case remains in my jurisdiction, but, as usual, my office is overworked and understaffed, so any help you or Sergeant Hand can give me will be greatly appreciated. One of my investigators took daguerreotypes of the deceased; when the plates have been processed, I’ll send one to the Admiralty.”

  Folkestone nodded.

  “Who’s the land-whale who keeps giving me the stink eye?” Hand asked suddenly, gesturing toward the Flying Moons.

  Baphor-Ta turned and saw Phylus-Zant glaring balefully.

  “Land-whale? Stink eye?” the Chief Investigator said, rolling his gaze toward Folkestone. “I’m afraid I don’t…”

  “In addition to edifying his mind with the collected works of Shakespeare, Sergeant Hand has been tearing it down just as fast by reading the lurid tales of one Nicodemus Legend,” Folkestone said.

  “I’m afraid I don’t recognize…” In his mind, Baphor-Ta went over the names of the human authors he read regularly, as well as those he and learned to avoid, and drew a blank.

  “He’s a writer who lives in the Western Territories of North…”

  “Oh, more than that, Captain,” Hand protested. “He’s the hero of his own stories, he is, calls himself the Solitary Knight of the High Plains. Rousing stuff—Red Indians, hollow Earth, jungle…”

  “This Nicodemus Legend, probably just a name conjured by a New York City publisher,” Folkestone interrupted, and continued over Hand’s protests, “uses all the slang and rough vernacular of the North American frontier one would expect, and then some.”

  “Well, perhaps I’ll look him up if I get a chance,” Baphor-Ta said. “Now, Sergeant, the man you asked about is the Honorable Phylus-Zant, canal trader and, unfortunately for him, finder of dead bodies. He’s been very uncooperative.”

  “Do you think he might be involved with the murder?” Captain Folkestone asked.

  “No, it’s his nature to be uncooperative.” He looked to Sergeant Hand and said: “As to why, he’s giving you the…‘stink eye,’ it’s because he thinks you an ignorant and bellicose savage in a ridiculous uniform bearing a preposterous name.”

  “He what?” Hand exclaimed.

  “Other than that, I am sure he likely thinks you a fine fellow,” Baphor-Ta added.

  Sergeant Felix Hand stared at the prosperous trader, blood in his eyes, until the man nervously looked away. Even then, Hand seemed on the verge of going over to him and proving just how ignorant and bellicose he really was.

  “Easy, Sergeant,” Folkestone cautioned. “Names cannot harm you, and everyone is entitled to his opinion, no matter how odious it might be.”

  “Oh, and did I mention he considers humans noxious vermin who ought to be exterminated?” Baphor-Ta added, hiding a small smile behind his hand.

  “Oh, he did, did he?” Folkestone growled. “Maybe I should…”

  “Names are harmless, sir,” Hand said. “And everyone is…”

  “Shut up, Hand!”

  “Yes, sir,” Hand replied with a cherubic smile.

  “We’ll ask around once we get that daguerreotype, Baphor-Ta,” Folkestone said as he turned on his heel and hurried down the quay. “Come along, Hand.”

  “Shake a leg, as Nicodemus…”

  “Hand!”

  “Right behind you, sir.”

  Chapter 3

  Folkestone opened the door of the orderly room and poked his head through.

  “Sir?” the private at the central desk asked.

  “Sergeant Hand?”

  The trooper made a arching point with his finger. Folkestone looked around the door. Hand was off in the corner at a deal desk, apparently enthralled by a report on aethercraft and flier movements between the various commercial zones of Mars.

  “Sergeant Hand?” Folkestone said.

  Hand continued to read the shipping report, hands gripping the edges of the leather binder, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed.

  “Sergeant Hand!”

  The Martian looked up suddenly. “Yes, sir?”

  “Feel like lunching?” Folkestone asked.

  Hand glanced back at the report, then closed it and locked it in a drawer. “Yes, sir.” He grabbed his jacket and cap, donned them, then turned to the private. “If you need a break, have Bradbury or Heinlein relieve you.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the man said.

  “If I don’t return by sixteen-hundred, close up the orderly room and turn the keys over to Charge of Quarters,” Hand instructed.

  “Will do, Sergeant.”

  “And stay out of my desk unless you want your arms broke.”

  The soldier nodded quickly.

  Hand followed Folkestone into the corridor, closing the door. To Folkestone’s inclined head and raised eyebrows, he said: “He’s a good soldier, for the most part, young Marlowe is, but he’s a bit of a snoop, sir. Always poking about.”

  “Bored, i
s he?”

  “Why do you think I might not be back, sir?”

  “Oh, I see,” Folkestone said. “And while you’re away, you do not want him mucking about your desk?”

  “Things he shouldn’t be concerned about, sir.”

  “Such as the shipping report that had you so enthralled?”

  “It is confidential information, sir.”

  “So he should stay out of your cache of shilling shockers?”

  “Yes, sir.” Hand did a quick double-take. “No, sir. I mean…”

  Folkestone laughed. “That’s all right, Sergeant. It is very boring duty, one I think you need not worry about for awhile.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Hand said. “If I am not on assignment with you for the Lord Admiral, I’d just as be sent back to my regiment.”

  “You need not return to the orderly room at all,” Folkestone assured him.

  Hand glanced back.

  “Except to retrieve your report, of course,” Folkestone said. “We would not want confidential sipping information to fall into the wrong hands, would we?”

  “No, sir,” Hand agreed gratefully. “Where are we going?”

  “To the Salon des Sables Rouges.”

  “What?” Hand exclaimed.

  “They serve a delightful tiffin, Sergeant.”

  “French food?”

  “We have to eat somewhere.”

  “Yes, sir, but French?”

  “Indeed, the only French restaurant in Syrtis Major.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hand agreed. “There is a reason for that.”

  “Just the place for a Frenchman to go when he wants a taste of home,” Folkestone explained.

  “Sir?”

  Folkestone reached into his tunic and withdrew a leather folder about six inches long and four wide. It opened to reveal an image of the dead man found that morning.

  “It is an exposure from the original daguerreotype, so it’s not as clear as it might be,” Folkestone said, “but it should be sufficient for our purposes.”

  “You think the dead bloke might be French?”

  “It’s certainly possible,” Folkestone admitted as they left the Admiralty. “I’ve given much thought to the comments you made about the dead man’s moustaches. To keep them pencil-thin and as precise as they are requires a time-consuming daily toilet. While all men have a streak of vanity…”