by Jim Beard
Cabot said, “Perhaps ‘our world’ simply means there is some awkwardness in translating their language to English, and they aren’t proficient with idioms. And it’s quite possible the two groups come from the same country, but are opposing factions in some sort of civil war.”
Yarrow tilted his head. “But the plate found in the wreckage of the ship said something about ‘America,’ did it not?”
Valiantine nodded. “Which is all the more confusing, but it at least suggests their home is in the New World, not Europe. Whatever their origin, it must be a country with advanced engineering capabilities. That would shorten the list.”
Cabot said, “Unless Edgar Allan Poe and John Symmes were right, and a civilization has developed within the hollow Earth.”
Dr. Yarrow stared at the Treasury agent. “Do you suppose that is possible, Mr. Cabot?”
Cabot’s neck reddened. “No, I’m sorry. A moment of whimsy broke through my frustration at having witnessed so much but still knowing so little. I do apologize, it was completely inappropriate.”
“Since you mention Mr. Poe, perhaps it is his Imp of the Perverse making itself known.” Yarrow smiled.
Cabot attempted to smile in return. “Yes, you may be correct.”
Valiantine cleared his throat. He caught Cabot watching him as he picked minute bits of lint from the sofa’s embroidery. He moved his hands to his lap.
Dr. Yarrow spoke again. “It may be that we need some whimsy, gentlemen. In reading your reports, I’ve learned you were engaged in situations that exerted great stress upon your minds. You were in danger of losing your careers. You were, physically and mentally, in harm’s way.”
He gestured toward a wall. “Did you notice the botanical prints? A friend gave them to me years ago. But their purpose is not merely decorative. The bud opens up into the completely blooming flower. But the flower will not fully blossom until conditions are proper for it to do so.”
Yarrow held up an index finger. “The mind is much like a flower. It is like a bud, closed about some mystery or problem, like the enigmas of this flying vessel you gentlemen are dealing with. You have worked hard, risked life and limb, and still have no satisfactory answers. The mind seeks order, and the order your minds seek regarding this airborne ship is closure. Only when these mysteries are resolved will you have closure, and then your minds will blossom again, free from worry.”
The doctor smiled at his guests. “So, if levity will promote flowers over the mental weeds of confusion and frustration, then let us laugh.” He chuckled in an artificial way that made the Aero-Marshals glance at one another.
“Dr. Yarrow,” Cabot said, “since you are a neutral party reading our reports, what do you make of the situation as we have described it?”
Yarrow looked at his fingers before returning his gaze to his guests. “Like you, I am puzzled. By several things. For example, the likeness of the man named Carnavon to this strange person, Awanai.”
“He was a mean, wicked creature.” Valiantine’s anger was obvious.
Cabot said, “The Trio suggested—obliquely—that they weren’t simply imposters, but were related to the men they replaced in some way. Like... opposite sides of the same coin.”
Yarrow’s eyebrows rose. “Doppelgangers? Doubles?”
“Yes, that’s it! Awanai was much more direct in stating Carnavon was his counterpart. Apparently Awanai developed the secret for the ship’s ability to fly. He said Carnavon was on track to do the same. That’s why Awanai murdered him.”
“Ah. And did this have something to do with the coins?”
“No,” Cabot said. “The coins simply seem to confuse everything further.”
Yarrow leaned forward. This position, paired with the bat-eared shape of his chair, emphasized an appearance of the doctor looming over his guests. “How so?”
“Apparently the Trio’s men aboard the airship used these coins while trading with at least three families in Kansas. Their minting remains a mystery—they are not U.S. coins, but perhaps they are badly designed counterfeits, for whatever reason.” Cabot frowned. “Their design was bad enough that lawful authorities noticed them. I was initially brought into the airship mystery by investigating these coins.”
“You were sent by the man posing as Gallows, correct?” Yarrow asked.
“Yes.”
“But why?” Yarrow sat back. “If he was part of the conspiracy, why have it investigated?”
“Part of the Trio’s camouflage.”
“Ah. Please continue about the coins. They disappeared, I believe?”
“They seem to have been stolen.”
“By whom?”
“Possibly they were recovered by the airship crew,” Valiantine said.
“Possibly?”
“We think it’s very likely they were removed by the faction opposing the airship army. Whoever stole them must have had mechanical techniques that allowed them to do so without leaving any sign of such.”
Cabot added, “We think the opposing force used the stolen coins in Louisville.”
“Allegedly finding them by the canal?” the doctor asked.
“Yes.”
“To what purpose?”
Valiantine sighed. “Apparently to draw the airship faction into a trap. To perhaps gain the secrets to flying or to board the airship.”
“Or,” Cabot said, then he paused. “Or to capture a berserker.”
Yarrow’s fingers again formed a steeple. “You mean the monster?”
“It ties back to the coins,” Cabot said. “We have surmised the cows—or perhaps there was only one cow, bartered multiple times—the cow was a sort of experiment. It produced milk that carried some quality or ingredient that caused the children to change into murderous beasts. After seeing the martial posturing of the airship agents, I can only surmise they were attempting to create some sort of berserker warrior—and exploited innocent children for this vile purpose.”
“My goodness,” Yarrow said. He dropped his hands to the arms of his chair.
“I think the one I shot in Louisville was Sam Brecker. He had tried to escape his captors. That’s why we found victims there from both factions: he didn’t want to return to the airship, and he didn’t want to be captured by their enemies. He killed whoever tried to catch him. And the airship crew didn’t want him found by anyone else.”
“Hm.” Yarrow stared at Cabot. “That all sounds... horrific.”
Valiantine said, “We think Awanai was behind that mischief as well as making the ship fly.”
“I see. And this flying—it was tied to the vapors?”
“Yes,” the lieutenant said. “Apparently it was connected in some fashion to the meteorite Carnavon was working with.”
“The vapor or gas had some deleterious effects, yes?”
“Certainly it affected our perceptions,” Valiantine said. “And apparently those of the people on the ship.”
Yarrow tapped the arms of the chair with his fingers. “You wrote that the principals—the Trio—seemed almost lethargic when they were aboard.”
“Yes, and the soldiers did not respond in the sharp manner one would expect from military troops,” the lieutenant said. “It probably helped save our lives and allow us to escape.”
Cabot added, “It was like they were woozy... you might say they were drugged, as by doses of laudanum. Always they had someone playing music. This seemed so very odd, but we decided the music must have helped them keep their mental faculties engaged despite the effects of the vapor.”
Yarrow nodded and rested his chin on the points of his fingers. “And the food the gentleman in Indiana mentioned—Perklee?”
“Just as excessive drink may lead to inebriated hedonism, apparently continual exposure to the vapor—the vox—can do something very similar.”
“How strange.” The doctor combed his fingers through his muttonchops. “Did the vapor contribute to the decomposition of the coins?”
Cabot had completely reg
ained his composure and he spoke with confidence: “We thought that was a possibility.”
“One of the Trio said all their metals suffered during the trip to our country—our ‘world,’ he called it,” Valiantine said. “He may have meant the flying vapor corroded the coins and other metals during the trip. Again, it was another of their statements we’ve had to make guesses about.”
Dr. Yarrow considered silently a few moments. He stood and walked to the unshuttered window. “Gentlemen, your descriptions of the singular events you have experienced match all that you have written in your reports, which I have perused with great interest.” As the doctor spoke, he closed one of the window’s shutters, so that light poured into the room only through half the window. He returned to his seat and asked, “What is your opinion about the threat to our nation? Is another flying ship at large?”
Valiantine answered: “We saw only one ship at a time—and not in such a way to identify any distinguishing characteristics to know whether we saw the same one each time or sighted more than one. Since there have been no sightings since the crash, it’s likely only one ship ever was on the loose.”
He raised a finger. “However, a second ship may be hiding out since the crash, or may have left the country to avoid stirring further uproar.”
“Also,” Cabot said, “we know the faction representing the airship had agents placed in roles of authority within the government. We know the Trio—barring other evidence yet to be found—are dead. But other agents, other doppelgangers may yet be in place, working unsuspected. So the threat remains.”
Yarrow asked, “You were injured during your investigations, were you not? Both of you?”
Valiantine and Cabot nodded. The latter touched the fresh scar on his cheek.
“I would encourage you both to undergo medical examinations,” the doctor said. “And consider your own exposure to the flying vapor. You describe in your reports the disorientation caused by the vox. We do not know the long-term effects of this material. The inappropriate responses of the Trio and the armed soldiers demonstrate the dangers to one’s functions.”
Yarrow gazed at the two several moments. “We have touched on the stresses your assignment created upon your physical and mental health. Coupled with the exposure to the vox, I wonder if some hallucinatory elements might have played upon your cognitive faculties and heightened the fantastic characteristics of your experiences.”
Valiantine went completely still. Cabot sat bolt upright and narrowed his eyes. “Are you calling into question the veracity of our reports?”
Yarrow raised a placating hand. “On the contrary, I believe you have documented very accurately what you perceived during the events. But it is widely understood that perception sometimes paints reality with a brush colored by an emotion- or perception-altering palette. The vox, for example.”
“The wreckage of the airship is an undeniable reality,” Valiantine said in a quiet voice.
“True,” Yarrow said, “but we have only your description of its character before the crash to rely upon.”
Silence from the visitors.
Dr. Yarrow resumed: “I am not attempting to undermine your work. You have been through a difficult period. I am here to help you and to support the President’s efforts to secure our country against foreign incursions.” He looked each man in the eyes several seconds. “I have two recommendations for you. First, I ask you to comb and sift through your recollections and impressions of the events you experienced. Measure them against what is reasonable and against the hard evidence that remains from your investigations.”
The Aero-Marshals did not reply.
Yarrow continued: “Second, I urge you to rest from your labors. You have worked diligently, under great stress, in service to your President and your country. You have continued to focus your mental energies on deducing solutions to the mysteries raised by the flying machine. But it is time for you to rest. Relax. No flying ship sightings have been reported since the wreck. No reports of strange military forces have been received. Really, how many agents could possibly remain in place? How many doppelgangers could realistically exist? Now that the authorities know how their agencies have been infiltrated, any false agents will eventually be discovered.”
The doctor stood. “You were given a mission—whatever ruse may have lain behind it—and you more than succeeded in carrying it out. Despite the will and coercion of your false superiors, you succeeded in revealing the black plot against the nation and the President. Gentlemen, celebrate your success. Close the file on this mission. Move on to more pleasant concerns.”
Yarrow smiled and spread his hands. “I am sorry, gentlemen, but I have another appointment to get to. I so appreciate your coming here. Please feel welcome to visit again.” The Aero-Marshals stood, and Yarrow shook their hands. “Thank you for your service to your country. You are fine examples for your peers.” He opened the door to the foyer. “Good day, gentlemen. Brilson will see you out.”
Minutes later, standing by the street, Cabot shivered and pulled his coat closer. “So, do you suppose we were judged sane or dangerously mad?” he asked.
Valiantine adjusted his hat. “We knew we would encounter resistance when we began to discuss these matters in detail outside our own company.” They started walking to the corner. “And Dr. Yarrow must keep the wellbeing of the country in mind. He is a doctor. Our veracity, our health are all part of his concern.”
“Hm.” Cabot glanced back at the doctor’s residence. “He is correct about one thing. We must remain vigilant.”
“He is correct in another, as well,” Valiantine said. “We are weary. Both in mind and body. We need to accept that we have resolved the immediate threats. It is time to focus on the future.” The lieutenant took a deep breath and held it a few moments before releasing it in a gust. “I, for one, am ready.”
Dr. Yarrow watched Valiantine and Cabot through his half-shuttered window. Behind him, the louver-paneled door opened. A wheelchair came into the room, pushed by Brilson. Seated in the chair, wearing an embroidered robe and a lap blanket, was the man who called himself Awanai. A large pad covered his left eye. It was held in place by a bandage wrapped around his head.
“You heard?” Yarrow asked.
“Oh yes,” Awanai said. “Quite well.”
Yarrow glanced once more out the window before closing the remaining shutter. He turned to face the man in the wheelchair. “They are filled with suppositions, doubts, confusion, indignation. But,” and he paused to touch his fingertips together before his chest, as if in prayer, “they do know more than they realize.”
Awanai stared at the doctor several moments. Then he touched his forefinger to his cheek below his remaining eye. “Then they will bear watching.”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Jim Beard hunts the biggest of all game: good storytelling. With years of comic book collecting and obsessive amounts of science fiction, fantasy, and pulp reading under his belt, he frequently startles his Northwest Ohio neighbors with his constant muttering and note-making. Beyond that, Jim’s works include Sgt. Janus Spirit-Breaker, Monster Earth, Monster Aces, the Captain Action pulp novels, and Gotham City 14 Miles, a comprehensive look at the 1966 Batman TV series.
Duane Spurlock comes from a long line of long-winded story-tellers and near-sighted doodlers. He writes in a number of genres and occasionally illustrates books, including Brian J. Showers’ The Bleeding Horse and Other Ghost Stories, which won the 2008 Children of the Night Award from The Dracula Society. He lives with his family in Kentucky, where they garden, whistle, read folktales, and tell one another stories when not climbing bean stalks and hunting trolls.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Orchestrations
Broken
The Mists of Morning
Grace for the Dead
Above It All
Maps and Plans
The Last Hunt
The Debriefing
About the Authors
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