‘I think it’s worse than that,’ Jim said. He pulled Marie by the arm, away from the men, and spoke quietly. ‘This mess goes deeper than we could have realised. Dr Crookes could not have orchestrated this alone. Your uncle had at least limited access to this area, so he must have suspected something even if he wasn’t involved. But Cherleten must be in it up to his neck, because he knows everything that goes on down here.’
‘Don’t you drag my uncle into this. You’ve worked for Cherleten for what? Three years? Are you saying that he’s crooked?’
‘I have always known he was crooked, Marie. I just didn’t think he would go this far.’
‘Is this because of the paintings? You think Cherleten sanctioned the killing of those policemen to get the paintings? Why?’
‘To give him some advantage over Sir Toby, perhaps. Who knows? Dakin was killed for those paintings. Maybe Cherleten came by them afterwards, but I doubt it, otherwise they’d be in the evidence room upstairs. Just like those ghouls down there aren’t in the dead-room. They’re hidden, in a place that even Hardwick didn’t know existed. And don’t forget the weapon stores. Emptied before we got here. The other stores are likely to have been similarly emptied; they must have worked all day, and the staff left behind who did the work were left to die first at the hands of the ghouls, then the Artist’s men.’
‘Why? Doesn’t he need them? And what about the Nightwatch?’
‘Cherleten knows the facility is going to be destroyed one way or another. I’d guess he’s removed essential equipment, so that he can continue his experiments after the facility is gone. Where he’s moved it to, however, is another question. I imagine essential personnel were not scheduled to work tonight – he told me himself that the facility was staffed by a “skeleton crew” tonight, as if he’d expected something to happen. And as for the Nightwatch… Cherleten never trusted them, and never trusted your uncle. He’s always wanted nothing more than to militarise the Order with Otherside weapons. It’s all an arms race for him, Marie.’
‘Hold your horses, James,’ Marie said. ‘I know you’re sore about Dakin, but that’s a big leap. You’re the one Cherleten entrusted with the explosives. Why do that if he’s part of some conspiracy? Why not just get Crookes to do it?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe things moved too fast. Maybe Crookes didn’t have the key to the bombs, or couldn’t reach them because it wasn’t safe. Maybe he got delayed down here, and just didn’t make it out before the Artist arrived. If he was in here, it must have been something to do with the vampires – Cherleten certainly wouldn’t trust just anyone with that particular dirty secret. For all we know, he might have been told to wait so he could steal that submarine we’ve heard so much about.
‘But look, Cherleten might not care if Crookes lives or dies. By openly putting trust in me, it looks good for him – he needs people like Melville on his side. I don’t think Cherleten is planning to overthrow the Empire or anything. I think he wants to destabilise things, start a war, make a rift in London – or make it clear to the Prime Minister that the Russians have attempted to do just that. Sir Toby said it himself – the Prime Minister wouldn’t allow the militarism of Apollo Lycea. Well, Cherleten has damned well made certain that will change.’
‘Everyone is racing to build the ultimate weapon,’ Marie said, her voice cracked. ‘They don’t care about the risks, as long as they’re the first to get there.’
Jim nodded. ‘When our people are killed by Riftborn, and the Russians are blamed for all of this, Gladstone will think Cherleten was right all along. He’ll be placed in charge of the Order, for a start, and who knows where he goes from there. Maybe that’s enough for him – the most senior spymaster in England. People have killed for far less power than that.’
‘So now… Crookes gets out of here in the submarine, which Cherleten wants for himself. That means either we fail, in which case the Rift destroys all of this, and us with it. Or we succeed, in which case only a few of us escape, and Cherleten deals with us later.’
‘I’d say that’s a fairly safe bet,’ Jim said.
‘Or a fairy story. But let’s say I believe it. What do we do?’
‘First, we go back into that lab and gather what evidence we can. Then… we help John. Because the only way we win is if we prevent both of those outcomes. This is why Cherleten didn’t want Tesla to come along. He could shut down the gate, or sail off in that submarine of his, or both.’
‘A frontal assault on trained enemy soldiers. I don’t like those odds,’ Marie said.
A great rumble erupted all around. Dust fell from the ceiling. Carruthers and the men scattered for cover. The low vibration from the distant portal had become so ever-present that Jim had grown used to it. Now, however, something had changed.
‘It doesn’t sound like John has been very successful,’ Jim said. ‘If we’re going to act, it must be now. Damn; it feels like suicide.’
‘Wait a minute…’ Marie said. She held up the baton, and squeezed the handle until the prongs sparked with electricity. ‘I have an idea. But trust me, you aren’t going to like it.’
TWENTY-SIX
‘The gate it is almost ready, Madam Artist,’ Tesla said.
The Artist did not so much as look at John again. She brushed Orlov aside, leaving him fuming in her wake. She approached the gate, beside which stood a strange device, crackling with power, with long leather-strapped rods protruding from it like horns. The Artist moved quickly, rolling up the sleeve of her dress, tapping at the vein of her arm. From the bank of instruments beside the gate, she withdrew a long tube, with a needle at one end, and inserted it into her arm, before strapping the needle in place. Almost at once, a pale brown fluid began to travel along the tube, and into the Artist’s veins. John saw now that the tube was attached to a small machine, which used a system of pumps to force etherium into the Artist.
‘This is madness…’ John gasped.
The Artist stepped towards the machine with the tall rods, and took one in each hand. She nodded to Tesla, who threw a great switch. Coruscating arcs of lightning flashed around the gate, the machinery, and the Artist. John saw now only Rosanna, in pain, crying out as she was wreathed in electricity. Every light in the room flickered and died. All that was left was silence, and the steady amber glow of the gate. It was almost still now, a polished mirror of gold, reflecting the stunned faces in the room.
In the reflection, John saw himself. And he saw that his guards had turned away from him to witness this great spectacle for themselves.
John had been working at the bonds behind his back since he had awoken. It had been instinct more than anything, for he certainly struggled to conjure up an ounce of fight in the face of the Artist. But the Russians – Orlov in particular – that was different. John had killed the leader of the celestials, and that had been to his advantage. Xiang had seen first-hand John’s knack for working loose common knots, and may have bound him more securely. As it stood, he finally had a hand free. He glanced about as surreptitiously as he could. He used the mirrored surface of the portal to select his target. Orlov was just out of reach, and another Russian stood between John and he, but closer still was a Chinaman with a rifle, a knife tucked into his boot. He would be first. It occurred to John that Rosanna – the Artist, whatever she was – may have foreseen his escape attempt. But she appeared otherwise occupied, slumped over Tesla’s machinery, struggling for breath.
John knew he had to secure the scientist. If anyone could stop this madness, it was Tesla.
A dark shape brushed the surface of the gate from the other side, causing ripples to flow across the pool of light. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but not before several men had flinched away from the formless thing, despite the shadow’s fleeting appearance. John had received an impression of it, a squamous tendril, a claw; perhaps both, perhaps neither. A predatory thing, seeking a way in and through. There was no more time to think.
John leapt to his feet, gr
abbing his chair, hurling it at the Russian in front of him, while throwing himself at the Chinese guard to his left. John was unsteady on his feet. There were more guards than he had at first thought, and workers too, around the peripheries of the room.
No time. Stop thinking. Act.
John hit the Chinaman hard, upending him, grabbing the knife from the man’s boot and jamming it into his heart in one smooth movement. A shot rang out; masonry exploded behind John’s head. He rolled forward, bringing the dying celestial with him, the body taking a bullet. John snatched up a rifle and shot the gunman dead. He leapt to his feet, and ran for cover.
Orlov was after him. Men stood ahead. John swept low, jabbing the butt of the rifle into the ribs of the first man, swinging up and around to crack the skull of the second before he could react. John dropped to one knee and squeezed off a round at Orlov. The Russian had pre-empted the attack, and had already swung one of his own men in front of him. John’s bullet struck the man’s shoulder. Orlov pushed his human shield forward, full-tilt, roaring curses in his mother tongue. John sensed movement all around, though no one would risk opening fire with their commander bearing down upon John like a raging bull.
John darted aside, staying low to the ground, kicking out at the wounded man’s knee. He tumbled. Orlov dropped him to avoid toppling over with the man he’d sacrificed. John jumped up, struggling with the bolt-action rifle, which felt like a heavy, ill-maintained antique. He could not work the bolt quickly enough, and Orlov pounced. He hit John with a powerful left hand, and only the glint of yellow light from a blade forewarned John of the incoming right. John dodged backwards. The knife cut the air an inch from his nose. Another Russian appeared behind John; a hand grabbed his wounded shoulder.
John rammed the rifle-butt into the new man’s stomach, finally sliding the bolt into place. John fired from the hip at the same time that Orlov kicked at the barrel, and the shot went wide, striking the golden surface of the gate, causing a brief, brilliant flare of light. Orlov slashed again with his knife. John brandished the rifle like a club, parrying the blow.
‘Give it up, English,’ Orlov said. ‘Look around you. If we wanted you dead, we would have killed you already.’
Orlov was right. John glanced over his shoulder and saw three men, ready to set upon him. Two more waited behind Orlov. Rosanna was nowhere in sight – perhaps she had seen the bullets flying and fled to safety. John knew Orlov was right. He could not win this. But when had that ever stopped him?
‘Come on, English,’ Orlov said, catching his breath. ‘We don’t want to kill you, eh.’
John thought of Sir Toby. He thought of all the death and chaos caused by Orlov, for without the Russians, the Artist would never have come so far. He thought of the terror that was about to be unleashed on London. His one good eye narrowed. ‘Your mistake,’ he growled.
John dashed forward, ignoring Orlov’s surprised counter-strike, ignoring the pain as the Russian’s blade bit into his side. He cracked Orlov hard on the bridge of the nose with the rifle. The Russian staggered back, leaving his knife dangling beneath John’s ribs. John pulled it out, roared with pain and rage, all of the sorrow and anger at this dire predicament manifesting in one herculean effort. Orlov tried to recover, but John pressed. Even as other hands grabbed at him, John tore away, and plunged the knife into Orlov’s gut.
The tall Russian staggered, a look of utter disbelief on his face. Someone struck John, and he slashed wildly with the knife, swinging about in a deadly arc, wounded and tired, but dangerous as a cornered beast.
The knife was knocked from John’s hand by a stinging blow. Men leapt upon him from all sides, and he struggled, until he felt a cold hand on his throat, and looked up into Rosanna’s brown eyes. His vision blurred, his bones and muscles sang a chorus of pain. He could not fight her; he knew he must, but he could not.
‘That was not foreseen,’ she hissed. ‘You really do have a habit of disrupting one’s plans. I was rather hoping that Orlov would see what is about to come through that gate, but you have robbed me of that small pleasure. Still, it makes no difference in the grand scheme of things.’
John wanted to ask what she meant, but he could say nothing as she squeezed his throat. He almost wished she would strangle the life from him, and make the nightmare end. All he could hear was the serene hum of the gate. His head swam.
Then a great flash of light half-blinded him. A scream. Gunshots – how many? Something struck Rosanna’s shoulder, spinning her around. Her blood sprayed onto John’s face. He fell to the floor as the men released him and scattered. More gunshots reverberated around the room. Soldiers crouched low, returning fire at some new enemy. Another flash of light. Electrical energy streamed across the room in an arc, searing a Russian soldier, blistering his flesh instantaneously. John followed the source of the blast.
Marie Furnival. The young American leapt behind an overturned table as return fire thudded around her. Bullets ricocheted off Otherside machinery. Sparks flew. Smoke filled the room like grey fog. John crawled for cover as soldiers on both sides dashed to and fro, or hit the ground writhing in agony from bullet-wounds.
There was more. Ghouls. They were a procession of deformity – one with a nose torn off, or rotted away; one with skin so wasted that its ribcage protruded externally over its chest; another with no ears; yet another with a bulbous head like the worst-affected victim of syphilis imaginable. Each was branded with a number, like cattle. They tore across the room, uncoordinated, wild, throwing themselves at anything that moved. Teeth snapped at throats. Claws ripped limbs and faces. The chamber was not large enough for such a battle – the roar of gunfire was deafening, the stench of scorched flesh and spilt blood overwhelming.
Jim was near the doors, crouching behind a large oak desk, one hand on Tesla’s head, keeping the Serbian in cover. John counted too few men for this task. They must have come headlong through the corridors, through the stiffest resistance of the Russian soldiers and Chinese gangsters. Stupid. Brave, but stupid. But what of the ghouls? Where had they appeared from?
At last, John’s legs submitted to his will, and he scrabbled across the debris-strewn floor, past a fallen soldier – one of his own, a man he had picked from the Tower garrison, and brought to his death. John rolled over the desk, and found himself side-by-side with Jim.
‘Sorry we’re late, old boy,’ Jim shouted over the din.
‘What the –’
John could not finish. The light from the gate grew abruptly brighter, and hotter, and the low humming sound intensified. The golden light ebbed away, turning first crimson, then purple.
‘This not good!’ Tesla said.
‘What’s happening?’ John called.
The noise grew louder. The gate shimmered, faded waves of purplish ghost-lights flickered all about the room. The ceiling all but vanished, replaced by a night sky, half-real. In that sky were constellations that John did not recognise. Wind began to whip around the room, thunder rumbled, an unnatural storm brewing.
‘She has tuned the gate to another universe,’ Tesla cried. ‘She brings the Riftborn!’
‘How do we stop it?’
‘We cannot! Only Madam Artist can stop it, but not from here. On Otherside, she have device, the twin of this one. She can use it to close the gate. But not now – now the portal is open to a different world, yes?’
John understood. The gate no longer led to the Otherside, but to the ‘Rift’. To hell itself.
‘Can you put it back? Can you make it lead to the Otherside?’ he asked Tesla, desperation growing.
‘Perhaps, friend Hardwick. But she will not close it. She mean to let it absorb all power, to reach critical mass. Only when there is no more energy to drain, no more Majestics to consume, will the gate close.’
The gate now pulsated with energy that made the ground rumble and debris fall from the walls, and then came the chittering. An insectoid clacking as of huge mandibles; a scratching, intrusion of claws and fingernails,
picking inside John’s head. The smell of brimstone filled the air. Shadowy tendrils passed across the surface of the gate. Sparks flew as something indistinct, but sharp-taloned, tested the shimmering portal.
They came. Formless, unfathomable. The Riftborn. They were shadows one moment, demons the next. They were huge and tiny both. John could not get a fix on them, and nor did he wish to. Reason would not allow him to look upon them, or make any sense of them. They were wraiths, their unknowable aspects cloaked in shadow, and motes of floating witch-light. Faces leered from the spaces between realities, as though the very air parted at the presence of these stalking horrors.
Tendrils of shadow probed about the room, now slicing like razors, then caressing like a lover’s touch. John could barely fathom what was happening, but he knew these were the things that Sir Arthur called the Other. More came, their number announced only by flickering shadows or, rather, an absence of light.
The gunfire began again, and screaming. This time, terrible screams, almost inhuman. One Russian flew backwards through the air, bleeding from his eyes, nose and mouth, bones cracking as he went. John received an impression of a monstrous black shape carrying the man, with thousands of appendages snaking about him; it may have been all in his mind. He prayed it was.
Ghouls shrieked, and flailed at the intangible Riftborn. They fought, where mere men could not, but these were no pureblood wampyr. John suspected the ghouls were prey for the demons, just as the rest of them were, but they provided a distraction at least. Over it all, upon the pedestal of the gate, Rosanna stood. The wind lifted her from her feet, whipped her hair about her face like smoke, and she laughed. The Riftborn flew about her, but in her etherium-glutted state, she appeared to be their match.
‘What can we do?’ Jim shouted as the noise rose to unbearable levels.
The Apollonian Case Files Page 30
