Chapter 3: Lair of the Beast
1887
London, Westminster
S.T.E.A.M. Headquarters
Earth 2
“It’s unfortunate, losing Mordred like that,” Quigley murmured. “But, under the circumstances, understandable.”
“Sorry, Guv,” Chauncey muttered.
“We did our best, Guv,” Penelope added.
The large gray-and-white Bearded Collie nodded sagely. “If only there had been time to notify the rest of the pack, we might have been able to follow him.” He headed off their protestations with a gruff little growl. “I agree with all the actions you took, even breaking off the track—there’s no way you could have followed him in that fog without being found out. You’re no match for the likes of a brute like Mordred.” He fastened his gaze on the defiant Bulldog. “Neither of you.”
“If I had been along…” Spyro started to say.
“We’d still not know where Lord Cerberus’ new lair is,” Quigley snapped. “Mordred may be a simple-minded beast, but do not underestimate him. There are many S.T.E.A.M. agents now sleeping who made that error.”
“I think I could take him, Quigley,” Spyro said softly. “And there’s no brag in that.”
Quigley gazed calmly at the English Bull Terrier. He was all white except for a large black mark around his right eye, looking for all the world like a pirate’s eye patch. At eighty-five pounds, Spyro was only about half Mordred’s weight, but the fighting skills of the Bull Terrier were legendary. Spyro was more fit than Mordred, more firmly muscled, a good deal quicker in the lunge and snap departments, and certainly smarter. But Mordred’s teeth were like scimitars and his jaws like steam-powered presses. All Mordred needed was one good contact and Spyro’s head would crack like the egg it resembled.
“Maybe,” Quigley finally admitted, “but I should hate to lose any member of the pack, even you.”
Penelope started to protest, but Chauncey silenced her with a slight chuckle. “Don’t take it to heart, luv. Those two been pack-mates longer than either of us been alive, they have. They may pick and bicker from time to time, but each would give his life for the other. In fact, one time they…”
“Lord Cerberus’ new lair must be south of the Thames, somewhere in the vicinity of Blackfriars Bridge, quite important new information,” Quigley resumed. “I’ve already passed on to the Ministry a request for an increase of military and police canine patrols in the area.”
“Fat lot of good that will do, Guv” Spyro snarled. “Most of those Scotland Yard pooches couldn’t find a butt to sniff with a map, and don’t get me started about…”
“Spyro!” Quigley snapped. “You forget a lady is present.”
Spyro lowered his gaze and bowed contritely. “Sorry, Miss Penelope. I let myself be carried away by…”
“Quite all right, Spyro,” the Lakeland Terrier said. “I am not easily offended by one’s language.”
Chauncey looked at her askance,
“Perhaps not, Penelope,” Quigley allowed, “but I insist proper decorum be maintained, as much as possible, especially here.” He looked at the three dogs. “We’re not a clowder of cats, are we?”
“No, Guv,” the dogs chorused.
“Tell me again,” Quigley continued, “how the two of you came across Mordred and what happened then.”
“Me and Penelope had just dropped off the nightly document pouch at Scotland Yard when we saw Mordred trotting close to the river-walk,” Chauncey explained. “Given the fog, we might have missed him had it not been for that glowing tube he was carrying in his jaws. We followed after, did pretty well till for some reason he got his hackles up about something and stopped.”
“I do not think it had anything to do with us,” Penelope said.
“Ah, your sensation of being watched,” Quigley harrumphed. “If you felt it, then Mordred could have as well. His brain-pan may be a bit shallow, but nothing wrong with his instincts. In fact, with the sort of directed breeding his pack is known…”
“Maybe there was or maybe there wasn’t some watcher in the mist,” Chauncey said, interrupting what could have become a long-winded lecture by their alpha. “All I know is that I did not see a blinking thing, not even with augmented sight.”
“Useless goggles,” Spyro growled.
“The scientists and artificers among the Companions think very highly of their technological marvels,” Quigley pointed out, then added: “But I tend to agree with Spyro. More often than not, we’re better off relying on the senses given us by the All-Creator.”
“The day Companions come up with a gadget better than a dog’s nose,” Spyro said, “that’s the day I hang up my collar and put on a leash.”
The thought of anyone as fiercely independent as Spyro giving up his life as a S.T.E.A.M. agent to assume that of a domestic gave the dogs a much-needed chuckle. Sometimes, caught between the constant battle with creatures like Lord Cerberus and the foibles of the Companions, who were mostly well-intentioned if dim-witted, a little levity was called for, else even natural canine optimism could be overwhelmed by circumstances.
“Aside from the question of where Mordred was bound,” the Bearded Collie said after everyone had had a laugh, “we also have the matter of the glowing tube Mordred was delivering. Obviously, Mordred obtained it at Lord Cerberus’ command, but for what purpose? Why would he want a creation of Companion science and artifice? It is difficult to understand what use he could have for it, how it could advance some scheme for domination. Up till now, Lord Cerberus and his cat, Lilith, have contented themselves with taking over, terrorizing and exacting tribute from the packs and clowders of East London. We know he is keen to extend his influence into West London. Could the tube represent a new plan to fulfill that goal, perhaps even to expand his control outside London itself? Lord Cerberus has demonstrated a preternatural intelligence and most uncanine-like behavior, and it’s obvious from some of his exploits that his scientific acumen rivals that of the Companions themselves, but what possible use could he have for a device as outré as the one you two described?”
“As I told Penelope,” Chauncey said, “if it’s for Lord Cerberus, it cannot be for any good purpose.”
“Indeed not!” chimed a new voice, breathlessly exuberant and stridently nervous. A young Corgi-mix wearing a fez bounded into the meeting room. “Not for any good purpose at all!”
“Gearhead!” Quigley exclaimed. “I thought you were assigned to the Ministry of Science, at least for the duration of the Cape Colony emergency.”
“I’ve been transferred to S.T.E.A.M., effective immediately,” Gearhead said. “And it has to do with Lord Cerberus.”
“We’re glad to have you back in the pack whatever the reason,” the Bearded Collie declared, letting Gearhead sniff his muzzle in the traditional greeting. “I take it you know something of the device observed in Mordred’s possession by Chauncey and Penelope.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Gearhead replied. “With that device in Lord Cerberus’ control, he poses a greater danger to the Empire than any we have ever faced before.”
“Perhaps you had better explain,” Quigley suggested.
After young Gearhead exchanged greetings with the other dogs, Quigley passed control to him. Unlike other alphas, Quigley had no need to assert his authority every moment of every day. He did not live in fear of losing the respect or followship of his pack members. He knew that to every creature on Earth there was a season, including alphas. When his season came to an end, he would not seek to artificially prolong it, either by brute force or the false tricks of a poser. Besides, he knew that every dog had within him the potential to rise above his limitations, the quality of leadership that would let him become an alpha, at least for a season, whether that season lasted a lifetime or only for a defining moment.
Gearhead looked at the four dogs ranged before him, all in the attentive posture known as the Sphinx Position, paws before them, haunches tucked and head erect, tho
ugh Penelope held the modified pose affected by many females, with the rear legs angled to the left, sometimes called the Lounging Sphinx. Either posture was ideal for gatherings of packs, as it could be maintained for hours without any lapse of concentration or feeling any physical duress.
The Corgi-mix was the youngest of the pack, a fact of which he was all too conscious. His coat was mostly dark brown with white on his chest and paws, and his muzzle was a mix of light and dark browns with white. His head was teardrop-shaped. His ears were very long and soft. On his head was a maroon fez, a gift from his former Companion, the Welsh scientist who had perished at Lord Cerberus’ command. As he thought of his lost Companion, his eyes misted, though he tried not to show it.
The others waited patiently, but with waning patience, he realized. He tried to push aside his memories. He looked to Quigley. The Bearded Collie nodded slightly. Gearhead felt a change, almost felt as if he were in some way drawing upon Quigley’s strength, though he knew there was no scientific basis for the feeling. Some dogs believed he spent too much time associating with Companion scientists, and he wondered if they might not be right.
“Six hours ago a Companion technician was attacked near Kew and put down,” Gearhead said. “Investigators from Scotland Yard and the Ministry of Science quickly determined the attacker was a dog, but it was not known whether it was planned or a random act of violence by a rogue.”
“Mordred,” Chauncey muttered.
Gearhead nodded. “So it now appears. Your report of Mordred passing through the City with the glowing tube reached us about the same time we discovered the purpose of the crime. A device known as a Time Disruptor was stolen from the technician’s workshop. We believe that is what you saw Mordred carrying.”
“What the bloo…” Chauncey glanced covertly at Quigley and Penelope and decided not to press his luck. “What’s that?”
“As you all know, my former Companion built a model of a Time Machine and was working on a full-sized device when…he…” Gearhead faltered a moment. “We tested the machine by traveling far into the future. When we returned we found…”
Despite his best efforts to remain detached from the events of that terrible night, Gearhead was suddenly wracked by sorrow and pain. He and his Companion had escaped the clutches of the wicked Morlocks, fled the Temple of the Winged Sphinx, and returned to their home in Richmond, only to be attacked by Lord Cerberus and three soldiers: Mordred, Urias and Sykes. His Companion kept the Time Machine from falling into the paws of Lord Cerberus by sending it hurtling into an infinite future. His Companion perished in the battle and Gearhead was left for dead. Over a year had passed, yet Gearhead still saw it vividly in his dreams.
“Was the technician attempting to complete your Companion’s work?” Quigley asked softly.
The sound of Quigley’s voice allowed Gearhead to again find his concentration, his inner balance.
“He had the same goal, but was proceeding along a different line of research,” Gearhead said. “Where my Companion’s aim was to create a conveyance for traveling through time, from one age to another, as we might ride a locomotive from one station to another, the Time Disruptor fractures time, instantly transporting a traveler into another time period.”
The strengths of the canine race are not science or technology, but organic adaptations, though they at times use devices to humor Companions. Looking at the other dogs, Gearhead could see the disconnect in their eyes.
“Imagine a sheet of paper,” he said after a moment. “There are two ways to get to the other side. We can cross the face of the sheet, climb over the edge and walk on the reverse to the point we want to be at. Or, we can punch a hole in the paper and crawl through.”
It was an explanation he heard one Companion tell another, but he could tell from the expressions of the other dogs that something was lost in translation. Still, those dogs chosen to serve S.T.E.A.M. were a cut above others. Gearhead breathed a sigh of relief as he saw comprehension flood their gazes.
“So, Lord Cerberus is building a machine to get away from us,” Chauncey snorted. “Well, I says good riddance to him, and he can take the devil-cat Lilith with him. As long as he’s not in London here-and-now, I don’t care where he is.”
“But, Chauncey, you miss…” Gearhead started to say.
Quigley motioned for silence. “If Lord Cerberus escapes into the future, he will be a danger to any pack of dogs he encounters. But if he flees into the past…” He looked to Gearhead. “If I am wrong about this, feel free to correct me…he will be a much greater danger to us than he is now.”
Gearhead nodded. “Yes, absolutely!”
“How do you get that?” Spyro demanded.
“If he journeys back in time, he will be in a position to affect future events,” Gearhead said. “He might go back to the dawn of time and kill First Dog as a pup, or Anubis before he formulated the precepts of society. He might even ensure Gelert the Peacemaker does not survive the attack by the knight, in which case modern history as we know it would vanish like smoke.”
“I find that rather hard to believe,” Penelope murmured, but as she voiced her doubt she also wondered if it might be possible to use a Time Machine to save her Sire from Lord Cerberus’ jaws. “I know what you have said about your former Companion, but…to travel in time…”
“Don’t believe it,” Chauncey said. Spyro nodded in agreement. “We’re still here, and I don’t see nothing going up in smoke. If he done something in the past, it would be done, wouldn’t it?”
“It is a very complicated subject,” Gearhead admitted. “I do not pretend to understand all the intricacies of it, but I know that time travel is possible. My Companion and I saw the dire future, saw what may come to pass if we do not change our ways. I hoped time travel died with my Companion, but I fear it has not, and we are in great danger because of that.”
“Blasted Companions,” Chauncey muttered.
“Always meddling with the laws of nature,” Spyro agreed. “If there is something that should not be done, leave it to a Companion to do it. At least dogs learn from experience. Time Machine! Bah!”
“Personally, I think the idea of a Time Machine is a grand one,” Penelope said. “Think of all…”
“All the trouble it could cause,” Spyro interjected.
“Trouble seems to be the middle name of every Companion I have ever known,” Chauncey added.
“It’s the nature of Companions to…” Gearhead started to say.
Quigley cut the arguments short with a low growl followed by a sharp bark. He disliked using such tactics on his pack, forcing them to respond with aeons-ingrained instincts, but their tempers were on the verge of getting the best of them. This new and deadly threat from Lord Cerberus called for quick action from S.T.E.A.M. He needed them—the Empire needed them—at peak performance of mind and body. Anything that interfered with them doing their jobs had to be nipped in the bud.
“Sorry, Guv,” Spyro muttered, gaze cast down, and the others followed suit. “It’s just that…”
“Yes, Companions are always getting themselves into one mess or another, always keeping our paws busy hauling them out of pits of their own making,” Quigley pointed out. “It is their nature.”
The other dogs brightened when they realized they were not being scolded, just called back to task.
“It has always been that way,” Quigley reminded them. “First Dog understood the ways of Companions when he emerged from the darkness and lay by the campfire. From him, we learned that we must protect the Companions and show them by our own examples what it means to live a right and honorable life. From Anubis, who started as a mere dog upon the shores of the Nile but became much more, we received the mandate to dwell in their communities and show them how to co-exist. And, of course, from Gelert we learned to forgive them their natures, to work with them as partners with the goal of establishing a world of justice and peace.”
“I do not think every aspect of this modern world wo
uld please Gelert,” Penelope observed.
“Too right,” Chauncey agreed.
“Like all creatures, Companions must be true to their nature,” Quigley said. “We cannot change that nature, no more than we can change our own. We are all what we are.”
“I better note that so I can put it in my memoirs,” Spyro said.
The others looked at him sharply.
Quigley chuckled. “Yes, no time for philosophy. Lord Cerberus is somewhere out there in the nightland of London. It is up to us to find him and to stop him.” He paused. “No matter the cost.”
“I bet you won’t see Companions do for us what we do for them,” Chauncey muttered. “Just mentioning it, is all.”
Gearhead thought about how his Companion leaped between him and Lord Cerberus’ soldiers, but kept his mouth shut. He feared that if he tried to speak, he would not defend a brave and loyal Companion but would whimper like a frightened puppy.
“Perhaps not,” Quigley admitted. “But that does not matter. We are their protectors and guides. We stand between them and danger, at times between them and themselves. We do what we can, when we can. But, most of all, we forgive them.”
“Yes, I know all that,” Chauncey said. “We forgive them even when they do not deserve it.”
“No,” Quigley corrected. “We forgive Companions especially when they do not deserve it, as Gelert taught. It is the difference between us and them.” He looked around. “No philosophy! Back to work! We have a mad dog to track down.”
“With pleasure, Guv,” Penelope said.
Reports flowed into S.T.E.A.M. Quigley’s pack took the lead. Scotland Yard and Science Ministry canine units, as well as dogs in the Army and Imperial Airship Service, attempted to find Lord Cerberus’ lair. The only other dog Quigley would have wanted was Toby, but he was in Paris assisting the Eminent Companion from Baker Street. Their only lead was Chauncey and Penelope’s sighting of Mordred near Blackfriars Bridge. They concentrated their efforts in Rotherhithe, Bermondsey, and Camberwell, and as far west as Lambeth and eastwards to the Docks. The first break came in the hours before dawn, when a police dog named Beefsteak, looking smart in his dark blue vest marked with royal arms and VR monogram, reported an incident near the Old Kent Road.
Dogs of S.T.E.A.M. Page 4
