“No, ma’am,” Dollard sighed. “It does sound interesting, and I may be a bit loco myself.”
* * *
“All those people dead…it is so horrible…and all because of us,” sobbed Marie Poulpe, face buried in her hands.
“We don’t know that for certain,” Ethan Slaughter pointed out. “It might have happened anyway. Sometimes accidents do happen.”
“Do you really believe that, Ethan?”
What he believed was that they had escaped another attempt on their lives by the assassin dispatched by MEDUSA, but he did not tell her so, hoping she might find some measure of solace in the ambiguity of the situation. Certainly, when he had pulled her into the darkness after passing through the ticket queue, it had not been for the purpose of escaping death, but out of an abundance of caution, just in case they had somehow been followed across the darkness of Paris. Though he had headed for the airship terminal, it had always been his ultimate goal to depart Paris from one of the suburban railway depots. When the fiery debris of their intended airship was falling like scattered blossoms, they were buying tickets from a bored old man who never once looked up.
Now, they were in a private carriage on a westbound train that would eventually plunge into the darkness of the Channel Tunnel and then speed to the safety of London.
“What is to stop the assassin from placing an infernal device on this train?” Marie demanded. “Or derailing it? Or to simply come down the corridor and shoot us?”
“No one knows we are here,” he assured her. “Our names were on the passenger manifest, As far as anyone is concerned, we perished in the airship.”
The sobs that had wracked her body since seeing the flames to the southwest finally subsided. The train rocked along the gleaming rails, pulled at a steady clip by the bright brass and silver steam locomotive. The rhythmic motion combined with an onslaught of weariness to eventually lull her into a light sleep. Slaughter looked at the girl and smiled. There was more fight and courage in that petite frame than in any man he had ever met.
He wanted to send an aether-message to Whitehall, but he dare not take the chance. He locked the door, turned down the lamp, and settled down where he could keep easy watch through the night, deriving what little comfort he could from the gun in his pocket.
* * *
“That should be it there,” Dollard said. “Trouble.”
“Keep a sharp watch on all monitors, Mr Mark.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Approach the asteroid on a slow parabolic path, Mr Neumann, nice and easy.”
“Aye, sir.”
“That’s Pandora?” Lady Cynthia said, gazing through the port at a distant object only a little bigger than a star, but dimmer.
“It should be,” Dollard replied. “According to calculations.”
“You’re not sure, Mr Dollard?”
“Locations of individual bodies tend to be uncertain,” Dollard admitted. “Which is why Captain Wax knew you would need a man like me to find what you wanted.” He paused, then asked a question he had yearned to ask since signing into the service of this woman who was so full of contradictions: “This is what you were after all along, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” she replied. She had no reason to trust him, but in the airless expanse of space the admission could do no harm.
“Then why all the detours and aimless wandering to get here?”
She smiled, and turned her attention back to Pandora.
“Why are they uncertain?” she asked.
“What?”
“The absolute positions of the asteroids,” she said. “They are all charted…”
“Thousands are not.”
“Still, if we know an asteroid’s orbit within the Belt…”
“Places like Ceres, Pallas and Vesta are fairly stable in their orbits, too large to be affected by impacts or the gravitational fields of passing objects,” Dollard explained. “The others, Pandora too, are small enough to have their orbits disrupted, not enough to send them out of the Belt, but enough to put them somewhere other than where they’re supposed to be. And they can affect others. It’s all in constant flux, and most of being a good asteroid prospector is being able to adjust for that flux.”
“And you are a good asteroid prospector?”
“No, ma’am.” He grinned. “I’m a great one.”
“How modest,” she commented.
“No brag,” he said. “Even a good prospector can lose a strike. He marks it, files a claim, then returns to find his strike is nowhere to be found. Never happened to me. Not because of charts but because of this.” He tapped his temple. “Human mind can do what’s too complicated for a Babbage Machine. I always know where…”
“Captain, I’ve detected another source of energy,” Midshipman Mark exclaimed. “It is…” His voice trailed off.
“Well, Mr Mark?” Captain Wax prompted.
“There was a new reading, very powerful, but it’s not there anymore,” the young man said, gazing over the bank of monitors. “It just vanished, like a candle being extinguished.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dollard muttered, moving to stand behind Mark.
“Another ship, sir?” Neumann suggested.
“What was its fix, Mr Mark?” Wax asked.
“Seven degrees to port, towards Pandora,” Mark answered. “But there was no fade or rise to the signal—no velocity.”
“Not a ship then,” Wax muttered, scowling at the emptiness ahead. “But in the direction of Pandora. What was the reading?”
“Fifty million mega-ergs.”
“Are you sure, Mr Mark?” Wax demanded. “Anything putting out that much energy should be exploding.”
“Absolutely, sir,” Mark confirmed. “Brief but it was there.”
“Mr Neumann, reduce our velocity by half and increase the parabolic angle of our approach by thirty percent,” Wax ordered.
“Aye, sir.”
Wax picked up a speaking tube, flipped one of the switches at its side, and spoke into the brass bell-shaped mouthpiece. “Attention all hands, this is Captain Wax speaking. Secure all loose objects and report to ready stations. Stand by for further orders.”
“Captain, what is it?” Lady Cynthia asked.
“A source of energy such as Mr Mark detected should manifest itself as a bright flare of some kind, however briefly, but we saw nothing. It cannot be another ship, because there are no indications of velocity. If a ship were to expend that much energy against the aether, it would not be able to remain in one place.”
“Could it be on the side of Pandora away from us?”
Wax nodded. “That is my best guess, but as to what…” He looked to Dollard.
“Nothing in this universe,” Dollard said. “But if it’s on the surface of the asteroid, it should be rotating to…”
“Sir, I’ve picked up the signal again,” Mark announced. “But this time it is…”
The young midshipman again paused, but this time not because of his own confusion. Ahead of the Princess of Mars, obscuring the growing speck that was the asteroid Pandora, there appeared a flare brighter than any light had cause to be this far from the Sun. In its glare, all the stars seemed to fade to nothingness.
“Evasive maneuvers, Mr Neumann!” Captain Wax shouted as he swatted a red button near the speaking tube. A klaxon sounded throughout the aethership. “Brace yourselves!”
Something that seemed very much like lightning engulfed the Princess of Mars, so bright that even the illumination of the stars was lost. The aethership pitched along its axis so suddenly the force plates were not able to maintain constant gravity. Mark was almost thrown from his chair, but managed to stay at his post, and Dollard held to the back of Mark’s chair as his feet lifted from the deck. Wax grabbed a rail, but lost his grip and slammed into the back bulkhead of the bridge. Lady Cynthia grasped a brass cleat and held on with all her strength, finding after a moment that the observation port now appeared above her rather
than before her. Neumann held fast to the helm, pulling himself toward it and bracing his feet against the shifting deck.
“Mr Mark, vent all starboard steam, set starboard lateral aether force to full,” Neumann called calmly. “Bring all repulsors on line, stand by to implement on my command.”
“Aye, sir,” Mark replied, trying to emulate the First Officer’s steady demeanor, and nearly succeeding.
“All hands brace for impact,” Neumann said tersely into the helm speaking tube, then returned his full attention to piloting the besieged aethership.
The venting steam stabilized the aethership within the cone of lightning snaking around it, and the force of the aether-engines thrust the craft beyond reach of the energy tendrils. The Princess of Mars did not, however, escape without further damage. The surface of the aethership was lashed and scarred by the malicious attack, the metal and wood gouged. The craft listed severely, but still managed to move away under power, though the propulsion systems were faltering, on the edge of failure.
As suddenly as it had started, the attack ceased. The serpentine tentacles of pure energy vanished. The stars returned, and Pandora became a speck lost among thousands of other specks tumbling through the Asteroid Belt.
“Cease venting, Mr Mark,” Neumann said.
“Aye, sir,” Mark replied. “Aether-controls failing, sir.”
“Bring aether-engines to one-quarter.”
“One-quarter, aye.”
“Turning to sixty degrees by seven.”
“But, sir, that heads us toward…”
“I’m well aware of where we are going, Mr Mark,” Neumann snapped. “Stand by repulsors.”
“Repulsors at ready, sir,” Mark replied, though he remained puzzled by the command. Repulsors were generally used in space when passing through a micro-debris field; otherwise, they were utilized only during planetary maneuvers.
“Mr Dollard, please assist Captain Wax to the infirmary.”
“Sure.” Dollard eased his grip off the back of Mark’s chair and went to the captain, who was beginning to stir. He helped the man to his feet. “Take it easy, pardner, looks like you broke that wing.”
“Lady Cynthia, are you hurt?” Neumann asked.
“Bruised, but not seriously so.”
“Good. If you would so kind as to assist the medic in…”
“Sir, detecting other ships on an intercept course!”
“Increase aether-power to full,” Neumann barked.
“Full, aye, sir.”
Abruptly, a pressure wave swept through the aethership. Under normal circumstances the drive-thrust of aether-engines was increased incrementally to avoid the sudden displacement of inertia, which manifested itself in an omnidirectional wave. To those caught in the wave, it felt as if all their internal organs were moving all directions simultaneously.
“My Lord!” Lady Cynthia gasped as the sensation ceased as suddenly as it had started.
“Asteroid dead ahead,” Mark announced.
“Maintain power,” Neumann cautioned.
“Power levels dropping.”
“Stand by repulsors.”
The asteroid toward which they were hurtling was no massive chunk of rock, like Ceres or Vesta, but as it swelled before their eyes it seemed as huge as a planet. Mark glanced nervously at the First Officer, then turned his eyes back to the controls. He did not look out the observation port because he knew he would see nothing but his own approaching death.
Lady Cynthia turned away from the asteroid rushing at them.
The aethership groaned and buckled.
* * *
Eck watched the train’s rear-lamps vanish into the Parisian night. Neither rage nor frustration showed upon her lovely face. The girl and policeman should have died at the café. Explanations would be demanded. Had she been given time to mount more than a crude frontal attack she would have succeeded. Her actions had been dictated by the poor decisions of others. The failure at the café was not her fault. Of that, there could be no doubt.
Harder to justify would be the destruction of the airship and the escape of her targets. A time of explanations would come, but it was a matter for the future. The Baron would be less harsh if the targets were dead when that time came, even if the deaths came too late.
She questioned the old man at the ticket booth, who answered her without looking up from his paper. She turned and vanished into the night.
Chapter 8
Baron Wilhelm Bellaseus was as stupid and greedy as he was cunning and necessary. He was, for the moment at least, very useful to the operations and aims of MEDUSA. That usefulness was what made Lord Khallimar submit to the restrictions upon which Bellaseus insisted whenever anyone entered his wretched little realm, that speck of Central Europe he claimed for his own.
“We are approaching Castle Bellaseus, My Lord.”
Sitting in the dark, Lord Khallimar nodded. Unseen, it was more an habitual gesture than an informative one, but the pilot made no further comment. He was too busy navigating the stygian night without running lights or internal lighting, without either a homing beacon or guidance lights. Such a blind landing was dangerous, but it was required of any flier bound for the castle, which was one reason why visits were few and far between.
The pilot made his final approach to the landing pad within the keep, settling between stone walls. He heard Lord Khallimar rise from his seat, felt him stand behind him. He wondered if the dark man with the fork beard saw more than did he, but he knew better than question the Special Executive of MEDUSA. People who grew inquisitive about the affairs of Lord Khallimar often disappeared, if they were lucky. As they settled toward the area, pale gaslamps were lit by the Baron’s reptilian servitors.
The flier touched the stone floor with a soft clink, with more of a jar than the pilot had intended. Lord Khallimar grasped the back of the seat for support, uttered a barely audible grunt as he flexed his knees slightly to absorb the impact. The pilot felt his guts fall, a sensation that had nothing to do with the landing.
The pilot opened the hatch and extended the ramp.
Lord Khallimar let go of the seat, but lingered.
The pilot stared directly ahead, seeing nothing.
“Stay with the flier, pilot,” Lord Khallimar said presently. “We will depart in thirty minutes, perhaps less.”
“Yes, My Lord,” the pilot rasped. “All shall be in readiness.”
But the pilot was speaking to the air.
He settled back into the seat and let out a whoosh of breath.
Lord Khallimar paused, looked up to see the stone ceiling levering back into place. Along the flier’s ramp, three to a side, were the Venusian Nagas Bellaseus favored, all with stone-tipped spears held erect. At the base was a man in red and white livery, a man Lord Khallimar had never seen before, who bowed deeply and placed his hand over his heart. Lord Khallimar frowned.
So, Bellaseus sends a hapless functionary to meet me instead of greeting me himself, Lord Khallimar thought. Insolence in private is one thing, but this is intolerable.
“Greetings, My Lord Khallimar,” the lackey murmured with oily smoothness. “My master bids you salutations and welcome to Castle Bellaseus.”
Revealing no expression at all, Khallimar nodded. He gestured for the man to conduct him to the Baron.
“Yes, My Lord, the master awaits you, this way please,” the servant invited in a high chittering voice. “Mind the step there, My Lord. Yes, yes, here we are. Yes, My Lord, permit me to announce you to my master.”
The servitor opened the heavy wooden doors behind which the Baron waited the arrival of his guest. The man opened his mouth, but no words emerged. His eyes widened enormously. His tongue extruded from his mouth like a pale serpent, then retreated back to its teeth-lined cave. He collapsed to the floor. Lord Khallimar wiped the blade of his dagger clean on the servant’s livery, then returned it to its sheath.
“Close the doors, Bellaseus,” Lord Khallimar said.
Fighting the automatic urge to summon another servant, the Baron pushed the body out of the way, then pulled the doors closed.
“I was surprised to get your message, Ajite.”
Lord Khallimar bit back the words he wanted to fling at this buffoon. Preoccupied with his projects, he had allowed Bellaseus to grow too powerful. Though Khallimar wielded supreme power in MEDUSA, he still had to move carefully against the organization’s spymaster. While Khallimar made grand plans involving the lives of billions and centuries to come, the Baron had carefully and quietly forged alliances within MEDUSA.
“The assassination in Alexandria was important.”
Bellaseus shrugged. “It was still carried out. Would you like a glass of wine? Maybe a sherry?”
“Clumsily,” Khallimar snapped as he sat near the fire.
Bellaseus again shrugged as he sat in the leather wingchair next to the commander of MEDUSA. He took his time pouring a glass of wine, then pushed it slowly across the table between them.
“It was supposed to look like an accident,” Khallimar said. He picked up the glass, sniffed at it, then put it down. “That was the most important aspect of the operation, that the passing of power appear as if it were the result of an accident, attributable to no one. Now, there will be complications.”
“The power still shifts, and the means will eventually become as obscure as the man who was eliminated,” Bellaseus explained. “A situation arose…”
“Yes, I am aware of what happened in Paris.”
“And it was necessary to dispatch Eck immediately to handle that situation,” Bellaseus continued. “I needed my best assassin in Paris, and she was in Alexandria. I deemed Paris more important to the protection of MEDUSA than a little power-play in Egypt.”
“Did you need to send your best assassin to make such a dog’s dinner of it?” Khallimar demanded.
“When I discovered Forgeron was a traitor, it became necessary to take the most direct…”
Lord Khallimar slammed his fist against the occasional table. The wine glass flew off and shattered against the stone floor, and the table itself nearly toppled.
Amidst Dark Satanic Mills (Folkestone & Hand Interplanetary Steampunk Adventures Book 2) Page 20
