“It means, my dear chap,” James informed him, “that you’ve been well and truly nabbed.”
Beautrelet beamed. “I could hardly have phrased it better myself. Commissaire, here is the ringleader of this gang.” He turned to Poitevin and bowed slightly. “My congratulations, Monsieur–a very accomplished and creative crime. Unfortunately for you, it attracted my attention–otherwise, I am sure it would have been carried through most successfully.”
He tipped his hat as the humbled man was led off by the Police. Then he turned to James. “Despite the affair of the aircraft, I wish to thank you for your assistance. You were of great help. And you have convinced me to keep my feet firmly planted on the ground in the future!”
“You’ll be missing a lot of fun,” James informed him. He handed back the borrowed pistol, and then held out his hand. “Well, Monsieur Beautrelet–thank you for a grand adventure!”
“And my thanks to you also, Mr. Biggles... Biggles...” He stumbled over the pronunciation of the foreign name.
James laughed. “Biggles will do just fine!”
Joseph Altairac and Jean-Luc Rivera, both noted chroniclers of the fantastique and the paranormal, used their expertise to explore the very origins of Madame Atomos and create an authentic-looking secret document that throws an unexpected light on her birth. They logically postulate that, after Madame Atomos’ first strike on the United States in early 1963, some of the most shadowy players in the secret world of US intelligence were asked to investigate her and eventually discovered that, when it comes to Madame Atomos, the truth is indeed out there…
Joseph Altairac & Jean-Luc Rivera: The Butterfly Files
Washington, 1963
The document printed below was originally classified Majestic Top Secret and was released online by an organization known as the Lone Gunmen, that is, until their website was taken offline for reasons as yet unknown. We reproduce it here verbatim for our readers’ enlightenment without vouching in any way for its authenticity. The footnotes (identified by arabic numerals) were part of the original document. The Lone Gunmen, however, have added three additional notes (identified alphabetically), attached at the end of the document.
J.A. & J.-L. R
XF/AT/6 18 July 1963
From: Special Agent William Mulder, MJ-12
To: XXXXX, MJ-12 a
cc: J. E. Hoover, J. E. Evans, FBI ; Chief of Staff , US Army Intelligence; Prof. Tassilo von Töplitz, Paperclip (for evaluation).
Subject: Kanoto Yoshimuta, a.k.a. “Madame Atomos.”
1. Acting upon a top priority request by J. E. Evans, the undersigned has launched an investigation into Subject. This investigation, code-named “Butterfly,” was undertaken in Japan with the collaboration of the Tokkoka.b It has led to the discovery of a set of partially destroyed documents in an underground bunker located in the Shinjuku district of Tokyo. Special Agent Akamatsu of the Tokkoka has theorized that the bunker was one of Subject’s very first bases, when she was still building up her organization.
2. The documents found are carbon copies of three letters printed on onionskin paper. Nothing else appears to have survived the blast when the Tokkoka, disregarding Agent Akamatsu’s advice, affected a forced entry into the bunker. These letters are addressed by Subject to one Shiro Ishii, whom she affectionately calls “Uncle Ishii,” then residing at an unnamed location in Pingfang, near Harbin, in Manchuria.5
3. In the first letter, dated October 1944, Subject thanks Ishii for the various samples collected from the marutas 6 which she now proposes to use for her own experiments. Subject establishes unambiguously that her experiments are based on protocols initially designed by Doctor Fu Manchu,7 whose notes were found in his laboratory in Nanking after the Japanese invaded and sacked the city. It would seem that the capture of said laboratory was the veritable reason for their massive assault on that city.
4. In the second letter, which appears to have been written towards the end of May 1945, Subject inquires about Ishii’s health and informs him that they are on the verge of beginning mass production. Subject remarks that the sacrifice of the Yamato and her 2,475 crewmen were not in vain. She reports that the first of the two submarines sent by Germany successfully avoided the American fleet and the 560 kilograms of uranium oxide it carried reached Nagasaki in time for her first experiments. The second submarine was forced to surrender in the North Atlantic on May 19, 1945. Subject adds that, despite the cowardice of the German crew, the two Japanese officers who were accompanying the shipment were given the right to commit suicide, thus preserving honor and, more importantly, the secrecy of her experiments. Ultimately, however, Subject concludes that, despite a succesful rate of mutation of the sample strains, her experiments have come too late to be used effectively by the Noborito Research Institute in their Fu-Go campaign.8
5. In the third letter, dated August 30, 1945, two weeks after Japan’s surrender and three weeks after the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Subject writes that the “Enemy” (America) has found the “Heart of the Dragon.” 9 However, she adds that, thanks to her husband’s forethought, she has succeeded in escaping with their most valuable secrets, and that she has now begun work on a plan to avenge their dead. Subject claims that she has already gathered a community of like-minded scientists around her and refers to a “Professor Aldridge” who has shared his blueprints for a new type of “flying object” with her, before the destruction of his own facility in Czechoslovakia.10
6. Finally, Subject writes: “I shall carry the fight to the Enemy’s heartland. Every day, I look at the new symbol of the battle that will occupy me for the rest of my life: this superb notebook that contains all the fruits of your [Ishii’s] work and which your associates have delivered into my hands, as you instructed them to do. For it, I am eternally grateful, since the tattoed butterflies which adorn its binding will always remind me of...” 11
According to the results of this preliminary investigation, one is forced to conclude that, with respect to Subject, the truth is still out there.
William Mulder
Special Agent, MJ-12
Notes from the Lone Gunmen
a. All the recipients’ names on the original document were blacked out, but we were able to restore most of them after careful analysis and comparisons with other known memoranda of the period.
b. The Japanese secret police, allegedly disbanded in 1945, but obviously still operate, albeit in relative secrecy.
c. This is clearly the Professor Aldridge, a key figure in the development of 20th century astronautics, whose biography was compiled by author W.A. Harbinson.
Chris Roberson’s tale is a bittersweet, moving story that revisits characters dear to our childhood through the merciless prism of modern-day light. Its layered structure delivers new insights upon each rereading. Like Paul DiFilippo and Brian Stableford’s contributions, it is uniquely suited to Tales of the Shadowmen, wonderfully embodying how our dearest literary figures can acquire a life of their own, transcending that given by their original creators. Just as the undersigned’s “The Star Prince” in Volume 2 changed the way one may look at Saint-Exupery’s The Little Prince, it is unlikely that you will ever look at Jean de Brunhoff’s Babar in the same way after reading...
Chris Roberson: The Famous Ape
Africa, Today
When the ape boarded the train in Comrade Olur Station, he’d given his name as Thomas Recorde. If the use of the surname, an antiquated pre-Republic custom, had raised any eyebrows, no one had seen fit to comment on it.
There were half a dozen other ape passengers on the mostly empty train, all in suits of clothes as threadbare as those Thomas wore, but they sat far apart from one another, not speaking, trying not to make eye contact. The only words spoken were exchanged with the elephant who made his ponderous way down the aisle, checking everyone’s papers as the train steamed away from the station, leaving Olurgrad behind.
Thomas, for his part, kept his attention focused on the tarni
shed scrollwork on the cabin wall, studying it with the avid attention of one with nothing better to do. This had once been an imperial train, before the Animalist Revolution, and while it had been rechristened The Glorious Battle of the Windmill by the new government, its interior was still decorated with images of the Twelve Virtues. Thomas recalled the day at court, years before, when the old Elephant King had issued the decree that the Virtues should be emblazoned on all imperial property, commemorating a particularly portentous dream. The decree, of course, held as much weight now as any of the old King’s numerous fancies, which was to say none at all, but while the images were faded, the figures themselves could still be discerned. This winged elephant, with his shield and saber, must represent Courage. This, with his saw, Perseverance, and this one Learning with his candle, and this Patience with his timepiece.
There were more, Thomas guessed, at the front of the car, but they were masked by the draped flag of Olurgrad, blazoned with a pair of white tusks on a field of green. There was some symbolism to that, Thomas was sure, the image of old imperial virtue being obscured by pious Animalist patriotism; but just what the symbol signified, he could not say, and did not much care.
Thomas had had his fill of piousness, and of patriotism. He had seen his first blue sky in years that morning, the horizons of his world for long decades limited by lifeless grey walls. But any joy he might have taken from his first impressions of freedom were marred by the noise of the parade. He and the other political prisoners had been cleaned up, dressed in the same suits in which they had been arrested years before, and marched out to Green Square to be put on display. It was Midsummer Day, the anniversary of the first Animalist Revolution. There had been a full martial parade, the ranks of the elephant army marching in time, the crowds singing Beast of the World in patriotic unison, if not entirely on key. The cannons of Fort Hatchibombotar were fired in salute, and then Comrade Poutifour had taken the podium. The first citizen of the nation, as well as the last surviving leader of the Revolution, the old elephant had been turned out with martial splendor, the ribbon of the Order of the Green Banner dangling from his left ear, his tusks polished to a mirror sheen. He delivered a rousing speech on the recent successes of the various Animal Committees, the minor victories of the Sharp Tusks Movement and the Clean Tails League, the advances of the Wild Comrades’ Re-Education Committee to uplift the primitive elephants of the veldt.
Then Comrade Poutifour had turned the crowd’s attention to Thomas and the other political prisoners. A great show was being made of this exchange with the Ape Republic, and while the text of Poutifour’s speech spoke of it as representing an improvement in the relations between the two great powers, the clear subtext, thinly veiled, was that the apes were fast losing the long-standing cold war, and that the elephants would assuredly be the ultimate victors.
When the first citizen had concluded his remarks, as the day was ending, the ape prisoners were ushered unceremoniously to Comrade Olur Station, put on the train, and sent on their way.
Built in the days when both ape and elephant were ruled by Kings, the old railway line was once a vital artery of traffic between the two nations. Even when the apes ousted their King, and instituted the Republic, regular rail service was continued. It was only with the advent of the First Forest War that the trains stopped running, and after the elephants withdrew from the conflict, when the Animalists seized power, it seemed for a time that the trains might never run again. Now, it seemed, service had been resumed, however limited the basis. What that presaged for the future, Thomas was not sure. He had been out of touch with internal politics for some considerable time.
Thomas remembered the first time he’d ridden this line, when he’d gone as a young ape to Celesteville, and the court of the Elephant King. Now, a lifetime later, he made that trip in reverse, finally returning home.
The train rumbled along through the night, making its steady way through the Ituri Rainforest, skirting the border between Karunda and the Congo. It passed unnoticed through lands dominated by human tribes, first that of the Ba Baoro’m, and then the Bansutos, who did not sense the passing of the specially camouflaged train.
As dawn broke, the train finally approached its destination. Just east of the Omwamwi Falls, it entered a hidden tunnel, passed briefly through a midnight-dark tunnel, and came out the other side in the valley hemmed on all sides by mountains. There, before them, lay the sprawl of the Ape Republic, with Gorilla City at its center.
The other passengers seemed to come alive, as the train pulled into Monkeyville Station, their eyes widening, gradual smiles pulling at the corners of their wide ape mouths. Were they hoping to see family waiting to greet them? Friends? Or were they simply overcome by the emotion of returning home, after so long a delay?
Thomas knew that if anyone was waiting for him, it would not be family, and it would not be friends.
The train came to a stop, and the passengers queued to climb down to the platform. Thomas hung back, looking for any opportunity. The train’s crew had readily accepted it when he’d identified himself as Thomas Recorde on boarding, and the elephant who checked their papers was too bored to notice the discrepancy, but Thomas knew that his imposture would not stand up under the close scrutiny of the Ape Republic’s authorities. The fact that he used his birth name as an assumed identity, while perhaps ironic, did little to ensure that he would escape the inevitable consequences that would follow the discovery of the name under which he was better known. Famous, in fact. Or infamous, to be precise.
As it happened, he needn’t have worried. Just as it came time for Thomas to disembark, one of the apes who had preceded him off the train went into a bout of histrionics on returning to his native soil, hooting loudly like one of their primitive cousins in the jungle, dropping to all fours, and kissing with prehensile lips the very flagstones of the Gorilla City pavement. While all eyes were on this rather dramatic performance, Thomas slipped away into the milling crowd of the train station, seemingly undetected by the uniformed officers waiting to receive the returned prisoners.
Thomas had a moment of brief panic, as he glanced back and his eyes met those of an ape in a wide-brimmed yellow hat, a yellow raincoat draped over his long forearm. From his position, and posture, it was clear that the ape in the yellow hat was some superior to the uniformed officers.
His heart pounding in his chest, Thomas willed himself to break eye contact. Passing a news kiosk, he stopped walking, reasoning that he would look less like someone attempting to flee if he was no longer moving. Forcing himself to act as calm and naturally as was possible, he picked up a copy of the Gorilla City Gazette.
“Is this even real?” asked the she-ape behind the counter, narrowing her eyes and looking close at the rumpled republic banknote Thomas had produced. She peered at the date. “This thing is older than I am.”
Thomas gave a lopsided grin that didn’t reach his eyes, and answered only with a shrug.
“Whatever,” the she-ape replied with a shrug of her own, and rang up Thomas’s change.
Sliding the coins in his pocket, Thomas tucked the folded paper under his arm, and casually glanced back over his shoulder. The attentions of the ape in the yellow hat were elsewhere, his back turned to Thomas.
As the pounding of his heart gradually slowed its pace, Thomas walked out of the Monkeyville Station, into a brief and clear Gorilla City morning.
It had been a lifetime since he had been back, and Thomas had no notion where to go. All he knew was that he wanted to be away from the station. He hurried to the cab stand on the corner, hopped in the backseat of the first car in line, and shut the door behind him.
“City Center, please,” Thomas said.
The ape in the front seat, a weathered old silverback, glanced in the review mirror, his eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his cap. “You mean downtown?”
“Oui,” Thomas said, and then cursed himself inwardly. “That is, yes.”
The driver shook his head, but
pulled away from the curb, merging into traffic.
Throughout the drive, not a word was exchanged between them, but at every stop the driver would stare intently through the mirror at Thomas, eyeing him with clear suspicion. Was he reacting to Thomas referring to a district of the city by a name not used since the days of the old King? Or to the Gallic accent which Thomas could not hide, having spoken nothing but the elephants’ French for decades?
In silence, they reached the center of the city. Thomas paid the fare, his ancient bills eliciting the same response from the drive that they had from the newsvendor. His suspicions aside, however, the driver was happy to keep the change, and pulled away from the corner and back into traffic without a backwards glance.
The Sun had risen high enough in the east that the light now spilled between the close-packed buildings at the city’s center. Thomas’s shadow reached out an impossible distance before him as he walked, touching the buildings on the street’s far side. His stomach grumbled, and Thomas realized absently that he had not had a bite to eat since leaving the prison in Olurgrad the morning before. He was unexpectedly famished.
In the shadow of a building that, in Thomas’s youth, had been the Office of the Exchequer, but which now appeared to be an art museum of some stripe, was a small sidewalk café, tables under white clothes, straight-backed chairs with well-upholstered seats, shade umbrellas still folded from the night before. Thomas found a seat at the table farthest from the street, the stones of the building wall behind him cool through the thin fabric of his antique suit, and waved the waiter over.
Tales of the Shadowmen 3: Danse Macabre Page 25
