Alien Devices: Tesla joins crew to prevent alien zombie apocalypse (The Secret War Book 2)

by Raven Bond

  “Captain, Arms master,” he croaked as they came up beside the car. “Bastards snuck up on me.” Saira saw the blood pulsing from where the hatchet had cleaved between his shoulder and neck. It was not a good sign.

  “It is alright Giorgios. You have done well. You should rest now.”

  “She's right, Giorgios,” Will said gently. “You've done fine. Now rest, and let Tiku take care of you, that's an order.” The big man nodded, his eyes closing. Will glanced towards Tiku. “I know,” he said, answering her helpless stricken, look. “Do what you can for him.”

  “My Benefactor will have excellent medical facilities. We should leave now!” Both Saira and Will whirled at the voice, weapons raised. Lee startled back from the car at their reaction.

  “What sort of game is your 'benefactor' playing here Lee?” Wills' voice was cold with fury. The barrels of his revolver were still pointed at the smugglers agent while he spoke.

  “Truly, Captain Hunting Owl I do not know about any of this! I assure you this was not a plan of my Benefactor!” Lee protested angrily. “We must leave here before the authorities arrive!”

  Saira focused on the man's aura, knives at the ready. She felt shock and fear but no evasion. She relaxed her guard. “He is not lying,” she said to Will.

  Guang called out to Lee in Chinese. He was crouched beside one of the dead ambushers. The three of them joined him beside the fallen man. Guang had pulled back the corpse’s coat sleeve. A small tattoo of a circle with a single symbol was on his wrist. Saira fluidly bent and pulled back the sleeve of another man. She found the same symbol there.

  “This one has the same tattoo, Cap'n,” Saira reported.

  She rose wearily. One did not call upon the Dark Face without consequence and her core energy was much depleted. She would do the proper rites when they were finally safe. Meanwhile she could still fight if she had to.

  “This. . .this is the refuse of a dockside Society!” Lee cursed, kicking the dead man. “They would not dare attack the House of An!” he exclaimed.

  “Well, it seems they did,” Will remarked drily. From a distance came the sound of police whistles. “That's for us I bet. We have to git. Who can drive the car?”

  “I can,” Guang said. Will nodded at him.

  “Good. I'll be right up front with you.” Will moved purposefully towards the front passenger seat.

  “Saira, take the honored Mr. Lee in back with you. We're closer to Fong's than to the Tower.” He glared at Lee. “This medical treatment better be there,” he said with a warning.

  “It is,” Guang spoke up. “Do not harm him.”

  “I will keep him safe I promise you,” Saira's voice sounded like dull iron even to her. “As safe as Giorgio is.” She pointed with her knife for Lee to get in the back.

  “Drive quickly,” Saira said to Guang.

  Chapter 2

  Hotel Farthingale, Hong Kong

  Abigail, Lady Hadley, British Royal Scholar, dismounted from the bishaw on shaky legs. That had been unlike any bishaw ride she'd ever taken at home. The wizened old man raced them in and out of Hong Kong traffic with a suicidal disregard for either speed or rules. Several times she was sure that she'd breathed her last as he pedaled with mad abandon through the streets and up the hills.

  She found herself looking at an impressive building that appeared to be more like a panjandrum's palace than a hotel. The head footman, wearing a starched, red uniform, complete with a matching red breathing mask, gave her a short bow as she stood there. She was grateful that the air was less foul here in the hills than it was down by the tower. The stench was an unfortunate by-product of leaving the city Tesla Shield on. There was no way that the smoke from cooking fires, let alone coal and other industrial wastes, could be dissipated. Abby could see why many of the residents wore some kind of breathing mask.

  “Good day, My Lady,” the footman said, his voice muffled but understandable through the mask. “Are you staying with us, or are you here to see a guest?”

  “Staying,” she replied. “My father, Lord Robert Hadley, is already in residence.”

  “Very good, My Lady,” the footman said with another bow. “Does My Lady know to which rooms I shall be sending your train and servants?” he asked, motioning for a porter to take her single bag out of her hands.

  “Lord Hadley should have made arrangements that. I shall be expecting a trunk from the air tower to follow.” She said this rather curtly, keeping a hold of her carpetbag. She ignored the porter, much to the man's dismay. It may seem childish, but it was the only possession she had in this strange place. She was reluctant to let it go.

  “Very good, My Lady,” the head footman said again, with no change of inflection. “Charles here will see you to the front desk. Enjoy your stay.” The ritual pattern and formulaic words were both comforting and annoying to Abby.

  Charles led her down the wide stone promenade, through a huge, over decorated foyer, and up to a gleaming wooden desk. Behind the desk stood a man, who was attired in the epitome of British good taste. Dark suit coat with a natty gold-an- red brocade vest, cunningly tied purple cravat, with diamond stick-pin, capped with a gold-washed electronic monocle over his left eye. He smiled insouciantly, showing perfect white teeth. Abigail distrusted him immediately.

  “Good day, My Lady,” He greeted her. “How may the Hotel Farthingale be of assistance?”

  “I am Abigail, Lady Hadley. I believe my father, Lord Hadley, is expecting my arrival.” she said. He continued smiling at her, in a manner both subservient and critical, in equal parts.

  “Very good, My Lady. One moment please.” He reached into a rack of round, reading scrolls, each the size of his palm, and inserted one into the mechanical reader set discreetly below desk-top level. The machine whined. He fussily adjusted his monocle to read the imprinted wire as it unwound from the spool, the light of the reader flickering in bands across his face. The irritating sound stopped after a few moments.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, self-importantly, without looking up. “His Lordship has reserved for you the Damask Suite; an excellent choice. When shall we expect My Lady's servants and train?”

  “There will be a single trunk,” she said, memorizing the name plate on the desk for future reference. Such men lived for recognition, however slight.

  “I am so sorry to hear of this, My Lady! May one express condolences on the misfortunes of the road? To lose one’s luggage is a serious hardship!” Mr. John all but bowed to her behind the desk. “The Hotel Farthingale stands ready to aid you in any way we can,” he announced.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  What else was she to say? Given the opulence that surrounded her, she supposed most guests arrived with an army of servants and baggage. She wondered how her father was paying for such stately accommodations. Beyond their Crown stipend, they were hardly wealthy.

  “Of course, My Lady,” Mr. John murmured, “One moment, please.” He busied himself looking down at something, frowned, and again there was the whine and flicker of the reader. “Forgive me Lady Abigail, I was making certain of my notes. Your father is not currently with us. He did leave something for you, however.” With this pronouncement, Mr. John managed to look sincerely apologetic for a moment, before he continued. “I fear that his requirements were most specific.”

  “Yes?” Abigail could form nothing more coherent than the question. She was still reeling from the news that her father was not at the hotel after she had been through to reach him.

  The journey from Britain had not been without it's travails. Where else could he be? The manager removed his monocle, looking if anything vaguely uncomfortable.

  “I am sorry Lady Abigail,” the man said, all but groveling. “I am to only give it to you only after you, ahem, light your crest.”

  She gave a sigh of relief. Was that all? The way the man was carrying on, she thought 'requirements' would be something taxing. She frowned. On second thought, that her father would make such a requirem
ent was in itself disturbing. It implied not only that what he had left was important, but that he feared some skullduggery. Only members of the Royal Order of Scholars possessed the electronic badges that could glow upon the owner’s keyed touch. They could not be counterfeited. Did his instructions also imply that others might call for the message under false pretenses?

  “Of course” She smiled at the manager, not speaking her suspicions aloud. “I appreciate your attention to detail.” Removing her glove, she raised her right hand to touch the gem at the center of her crest. It lit with a bright blue light at the galvanic signature of her skin.

  “Ah,” the manager breathed. “That is truly marvelous, Lady Hadley. How does it work?”

  “I am afraid that is a Crown Secret, Mr. John.” Abigail replied. “I can assure you however that it will only light for me. As soon as the glow fades, you may attempt to light it yourself if you wish.”

  “Oh no My Lady,” The man exclaimed abashed, waving his hands. “That won't be necessary I'm sure!” He tapped a bell abruptly. “One moment while I have your article brought from the vault.” A young man appeared from the back, to whom he handed him a key. He then turned a large register book to face her.

  “If you would be so good as to sign in, Lady Hadley,” he invited. While she scrawled her name, he consulted his reader again. “I should also inform you that Lord Hadley left a sum of money with us to dispense to you as you wish it.” He handed her a card with the sum of five hundred pounds written on it.

  “Surely this is for my lodging here?” Abigail said questioningly.

  “That is already seen to through this week Lady Hadley. Do you wish to draw any funds at this time?”

  “No, thank you,” She fought to keep a growing wonderment out of her voice. “Not at this time.” Where had father come by so much money? The young man returned with a round, long leather tube, a case of the type that usually held maps or paintings.

  “Ah,” said Mr. John. “Here we are.” He handed the case over to her with a flourish. She took it puzzled. It did not feel heavy enough to hold any kind of artifact.

  “Is there anything else we may assist you with at this time, Lady Hadley?” Mr. John asked.

  “No, thank you, Mr. John.” Abigail replied. She was pressed to keep puzzlement out of her voice. She wanted to open the case immediately. She realized that she also wanted to get out of her damned corset. Saira Brighton of the Wind Dancer, part of the airship crew that had rescued her from slavers, had tried her best to help with the corset, but Abigail could tell the lacing was entirely scrambled. A ladies' maid the Arms master would never be.

  “Wait, yes there is,” she said to the manager, thinking the better of his offer. If they had that much money she was going to use it! Especially after all she had been through getting here, she vowed to herself. “I am in need of a personal maid, if that is possible.”

  “Of course Lady Hadley.” The manager bowed almost unctuously. “We can have one assigned to you exclusively for the duration of your stay if you wish it.”

  “Yes, thank you I do so wish. Also,” she said considering, “can you tell me where the nearest Aetherwave station is located?” After the War, companies had set up establishments around the world to transmit messages by Aetherwave. It was far easier than repairing the old telegraph systems. Even with the rise of private Aetherwave sets which were still cranky and expensive to maintain, there was sure to be either a British Aether or Western Lightning office nearby. The manager puffed up proudly at her question.

  “Lady Hadley, every suite at the Farthingale is furnished with its own Aetherwave set,” he announced. “One that can accommodate both broad and discreet waves. We are quite modern here, I assure you. He seemed, Abby thought, affronted that she might consider the establishment old-fashioned. “I can have a technician sent to your room to assist you if you wish?”

  “No, that will not be necessary, thank you,” she replied patiently. She smiled gently at Mr. Joh. She saw no reason to belabor the point that she was a Scholar, and had likely been using Aetherwave devices while he was still earning his first tip as a bell boy.

  “Very good,” the man replied bowing again. “I'll see to your maid at once, Lady Hadley. Charles will see you to your room.” Abigail allowed the redoubtable Charles to lead her towards the stairs. A tall, distinguished looking man stepped in front of them. He gave an effortless bow.

  “Forgive me,” the man said in a schooled, distinctly British manner. “Lady Abigail Hadley I presume?”

  Abigail examined him thoughtfully. He was dressed in a well-tailored, dark suit that displayed a Crown Service crest on the left side of his chest. His face was sun-burned a dark tan, as if from many days under a foreign sun. Frost touched the temples of his dark hair, and fierce grey eyes weighed everything they touched. Whoever this man was, Abigail was certain he was no common servant.

  “I am Abigail Hadley,” she confirmed warily. “And you are?”

  “Your pardon, Lady Hadley,” the man's voice was as deep and resonant as that of an actor. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Richard Preemus, personal secretary to the Governor-General, Sir Charles Keating. Welcome to Hong Kong.”

  “Thank you Mr. Preemus,” Abigail paused at a loss as to what to say. “While I am charmed to make your acquaintance, I am but newly arrived. How might I help you? I doubt that the Governor-General sends his personal representative to greet every new arrival.” She could have sworn that his mouth moved as if it might smile.

  “It is not every day that we have a member of the Royal Scholars enter our city on a mercenary airship,” he answered. “Please do not be startled. We are a rather small community out here, and news travels rapidly.” He reached into the side of his coat. Abigail's hand moved to rest on the concealed opening to her gun. He hesitated a moment, as if he knew what her action meant, then drew forth a large envelope with an equally large seal.

  “I have come to present you with an invitation to the Governor's Tea next week.” Moving closer to her, he held the envelope out engagingly. Abigail reluctantly had to raise her gun-hand to take it. He leaned his head towards hers, confidingly, still holding one end of the envelope.

  “I must speak with you privately on a matter of extreme urgency Lady Hadley,” he said, quietly enough so as to not be overheard. Abigail matched her voice to his.

  “I am recently arrived Mr. Preemus,” she replied. “Nor am I in the habit of entertaining strange men in my room.”

  “You need to have no fear of any lack of decorum, Lady Hadley,” he responded. “I have arranged a private room in the dining area for midmorning tea.” His grey eyes bored into hers. “The matter concerns your father. As soon as you may join me it would be to your advantage.”

  “Very well, after I go to my room.” She took the envelope from his hand and continued in a more audible voice. “I am afraid that I am much fatigued at the moment, Mr. Preemus. I do thank you for the invitation, and will reply as soon as I may. It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance sir.” He inclined his head in approval of her gambit. There were many people in the foyer who might be listening, although she could not swear to that.

  “Of course, Lady Hadley,” Preemus stepped back with a bow. “The pleasure has been mine, I assure you. Once again, welcome to Hong Kong.”

  “Thank you,” Abigail replied. She handed her bag to Charles, so that she could carry both case and envelope, and motioned him to lead the way. Exchanging a brief nod of farewell with the Governors secretary, she coolly ascended the stairs in Charles wake.

  Abigail was pleased to find the room to be both aesthetically pleasing, and comfortable; these were things that did not always find company or accord. There was a well-appointed sitting parlor with table and chairs. The room also held the promised Aetherwave set. It was an older Comet brand, but it would do for her to call home. The light tubes that ran along the edges of the ceiling were well-maintained and free of flicker. The bath was decorated in marble; t
he bedroom was lavish and boasted hand-made rugs of excellent workmanship in fine wool. Both rooms had large windows with a beautiful view of the city below. She breathed a sigh of contentment.

  Abigail sat on the edge of the bed to examine the map case she had been given. It was plain hard leather with no identifying marks on it. Tentatively she shook it and was rewarded with a hollow rattle from inside. She carefully pried open the top to see some kind of parchment rolled up within. As she turned the case over to coax it out, a card fell into her lap. It was an ordinary calling card with one word in print script, “Chang’s”. No address, no Aetherwave connection, nothing on the back. Puzzled, she sat it aside.

  Teasing out the parchment, she unrolled it to find a painting of sorts. It was done in the eastern style, with many divine looking figures around a complex wheel. It was utterly meaningless to her. Her father had never shown any interest in Eastern religions, or any religion for that matter. More puzzled than ever, she studied it for some time.

  When no enlightenment was forthcoming, she returned it and the card to the cylinder. Looking around she decided to hide it under the bed. Not the most original hiding place, but she felt better with it out of sight. That it was important she had no doubt. She simply didn't know how yet how it was important. She blinked in weariness even though it was not yet noon.

  She allowed as how she should be patient with herself. She had traveled half-way around the world, been captured by pirates, only to be rescued by the privateers of the Wind Dancer. She pictured the Captain, William Hunting Owl, and the Arms Master, Saira Brighton. The memory caused her to smile.

  Even though the Wind Dancer had been after some mysterious 'package' when they had swooped down, boarding her kidnappers' sailing ship, they had rescued Abigail. Saira and Captain Hunting Owl had explained to Abigail that Royal Scholars like herself and her father would be much in demand to certain unscrupulous persons. The thought of having their own personal Tesla for a slave would be a powerful inducement, she was assured, no matter how ridiculous the idea seemed to her.