by J M Bannon
“You have a patent?” Walton asked Giuliani.
“In Britain, America and France, with the provisional filing in Prussia,” confirmed Giuliani.
“May I propose that Mr. Giuliani’s present his work at our upcoming conference,” interrupted Sir Alistair Hilton. All turned to the leader of the Mechanists Guild.
“Signore Giuliani, it would be my honor for you to present to the Guild. This conference will be visited by the greatest mechanical minds and will be the platform you seek to have your peers acknowledge your achievements. Countess, you can watch your protege from the Chairman’s box with our nation’s dignitaries as Mr. Giuliani makes history.”
Chilton watched how this would play out. Sir Hilton’s comments were an obvious attempt to insert himself into this arrangement.
“Hilton, why would he care about being a peacock at your pageant. We are here to discuss the business of industry,” said Bessemer shaking Giuliani’s bar of meteoric steel in his clenched fist.
“Sir Hilton, I think that is a wonderful idea and the perfect place to announce to the world an agreement of Mr. Bessemer’s licensing of Mr. Giuliani’s methods,” suggested the Countess.
7
Thursday the 25th of April, 1861
1:20 A.M. The Sewers below the Necronist Temple, Paris, France
Caspar crawled on his belly through the storm drain. He wore his battle suit including the rebreather. Not that he planned to use gas grenades or to engage the enemy but to cleanse the rank smell of the stagnant water in the cramped tunnel.
This current mission pulled his team out of the field deep with Austria. When Caspar was given the assignment, it was simply put as, determine the state of Emperor Napoleon’s health. The everlasting Emperor, when last in the public eye suddenly looked ill. Not a surprise for anyone in their nineties and had lived the life he had. But what was strange was how youthful he had appeared until recently. The persistent rumors were that the Necronists were keeping the old man alive through arcane methods.
Prussian spies embedded in the Tuileries were no longer providing reports. Not that they had been discovered but no-one outside of Napoleon’s inner circle have seen him and word had been passed that he was now permanently residing at the Necronist Guild House.
Austria, France, Denmark, Major Reinhold didn’t like these clandestine missions that were conducted without an open declaration of war. His team known as Caspar’s Ghosts were known for their stealth and vicious attacks; feared on the battle field. His squads harried enemy troops by threatening supply lines and brutal flanking attacks. That was where he wanted to be, disrupting the enemy on the battlefield not sneaking around in enemy capitals in peace time.
Caspar Reinhold had been in Paris for some time and had begun reconnoitering the Necronist campus while the rest of his team made their way into the French capital. The latest communication was that he was to go deep into the Necronist temple to determine if the Emperor was alive.
The team had reconnoitered the campus for several days. He was sure that Napoleon was in the facility given the security. Reinhold’s Imperial Guard had taken up station around the Necronist campus on the island. His team was strategically placed around the compound to observe and take action only if provoked by his infiltration. They had researched the storm runoff system that drained off into the Seine. The old drawing showed the in- line position he occupied would bring him to an access cover in a private courtyard. An understanding of where the Emperor might be located was nearly impossible. The secretive organization gave limited access to its buildings and nothing could be found in public records beyond old surveys prior to the Necronists taking over the hospital.
Casper’s jerkin was coated and sealed to protect against the adverse effects of the alchemical weapons his unit used in battle, he felt relief that he was just soaked in his sweat and not what was in the sewer pipe. He stopped at a junction; he had memorized the path and this location should lead to the man hole in the courtyard. The tight confines made it difficult to twist. He would not be able to make the turn head first. Instead he inched past the junction, turned on his side and eased his legs through the hole first. The pipe was so confined that his equipment belt and weapons needed to be dragged behind him in a bag tied to a rope around his waist. As he inched back the bag was now right before his face. Crawling backward with all his gear in the bag, he could not be more defenseless.
After crawling for forty feet he could feel the area open up. The Major was now in the cistern below the manhole. Room enough to stand and the moonlight piercing the space through the holes in the manhole cover showed Caspar just how dark the sewer tunnels were. Opening his bag he took out his holster and his sword. An infantry design, not an officer’s sword, it was shorter with a brass hilt and pommel, although his unit wrapped the handle in black leather and applied pitch to eliminate any chance of the weapon catching a glint of light to reveal position.
There were recesses in the stonework of the cistern that acted as foot and hand holds. As he rested at the top gripping the edge of the manhole for stability with one hand he drew his dagger with the other pressing his feet against the wall. His work in the gymnasium made it possible for him to not only hold himself in this precarious position but have the hand and arm strength to lever up the cover.
If anyone was there he would be trapped. His only way to know was to lift the metal cover and stick his head up like a hapless rabbit coming out of its burrow. Caspar hated these moments when there was no technique or physical training that could give him an advantage. He was left to luck and circumstance. Using his knife, he levered up the edge enough then he pushed the cover up enough to peer into the courtyard.
Nothing.
Quickly but quietly he moved the cover enough to exit and then returned the cover before moving into the shadows. He surveyed the courtyard it was all stone and a featureless, open to the sky to let light into the interior rooms of the four-story building.
He tested the cast iron rain gutter and felt it could support his weight. The windows on the first floor were barred with iron grate. He thought through his movements before executing them: climbing the gutter, imagining swinging over to the small ledge below the windows edging to the first window and opening up the window. Just as he imagined it he worked his way up to the ledge. He edged close and peeked in to see if the room was empty. It was a simple office and it appeared unoccupied. he removed a thin slide bar from his belt. He could get it between the window sill to slide the latch open. It took time to quietly slide the bar in then to patiently nudge the latch open.
Once open he checked for inhabitants then slipped in to the room. He took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. As a covert operator mostly working at night he understood that it took time for the eyes to adjust and once given that time you could make out shapes even in an unlit room. Conversely when he would move into the lighted parts of the complex he would again need time to adjust. He could tell from the light spilling under the door jamb that the other side of the door was lit.
The door opened onto a two-story hall, located on a mezzanine. Across from him loomed a large expanse of stained-glass window. It was a strange sight given the setting of grey stone and leaded color glass, the hallway had the feel of a cathedral, but the images depicted were of the history of the Order and included images from Egyptian mythology. Scenes depicting the Necronists being handed tablets by Egyptian Gods and in another tableau, Napoleon consulting with the Necronists before a battle. It would have been before Leipzig and the War of Liberation when his country formed a coalition with the other nations to no longer abide by Napoleon’s continental system. The bloody battle, the worse seen in Europe resulted in a stalemate and France’s tactical withdrawal from the fatherland. He couldn’t see the entire hall below, so he laid on his belly and crawled to the edge to peer over and down to the first floor through heavy wood balusters that supported the railing.
He heard a door open and two imperial guards snap
to attention. It wasn’t Napoleon, it was a group of Necronists. Caspar recognized the leader Crocus and upon their exit the two guards proceeded inside through the door the leader of the Necronists had exited. Caspar watched the Necronists move down the hall. Crocus had been the Emperors confidant since they had been on expedition in Egypt. It was said he helped Napoleon decipher the Oraculum, that had made him nearly unbeatable. Many felt he had made a pact with the Devil and these Necronists were Satan’s agents on earth. He crawled along listening as they talked.
“Why do we not see any improvement?” Caspar heard one of the Necronists ask in French.
“Fetch Saint Yves and bring him to my chamber,” instructed Crocus.
He watched the two exit through large doors then Crocus turn and advance down a hallway. He then heard steps coming up the stairs. Crocus was coming up the stairs.
He stood up and pressed himself against the wall drawing his pistol from his holster. Caspar’s first weapon was stealth, but he was not opposed to shooting his way out. Tonight, the Necronist Guild Master won’t cheat death.
The man’s footsteps were at the top of the stairs and at any moment he would come around the corner. Caspar was ready — the foot -steps trailed off. Caspar peeked around the corner to see him walking down the hall. Crocus had gone down the hall running north, walking away from Caspar. The Necronist unlocked a door and entered. Taking note of the position, Caspar moved back to the room where he had arrived through. Going to the window he made his way out on the window ledge and edged along the wall to the window he associated with the door he saw Crocus enter. There were lights on inside, so he was certain this was where the old man had gone in.
Opening a pouch on his belt he removed a coil of cloth covered tubing. At one end it branched into three tubes that ended in vulcanized rubber suction cups. He pressed the cups onto the window so that the fine metallic filaments at the center contacted the window. The other end of the tube he inserted into a hole just below the earpiece of his mask. To assure that the trooper was protected from gas his headgear included mechanical devices to transmit sound. By connecting the tube to the earpiece, he could listen into the room. He rested his back against the wall and listened to the conversation. He had to concentrate to make out the French, as it was distorted by the listening device.
“Seer Saint Yves I just left the Emperor and the results of this treatment are no different,”
* * *
1:50 A.M. The High Guild Master’s Office Necronist Temple, Paris, France
“Seer Saint Yves, I just left the Emperor and the results of this treatment are no different,” said Crocus. Before Saint-Yves could answer he pelted Seer Dubois with the same question, “and Dubois, what is your assessment?”
“High Guild Master, I think it isn’t his Majesty, it is the process. If I may be blunt you look less energetic,” replied Seer Dubois.
Gerrard thought the same. Crocus looked older. It made sense given the man’s age and his use of the chamber. It wasn’t as regular as His Majesty, but he was
“My longevity is tied to his Majesty, not the chamber. If he dies, either his Imperial Guard will drag us to the guillotine or every religious fanatic will be storming our house. What of the Voodooist, whom you say is resurrected now in the body of Hume’s daughter? Get her to help us. Hume was always boasting how he learned the technique in the jungle,” coerced Crocus.
Saint-Yves shook his head, “Sir, my relationship with Miss Du Moya is strained at best and what I witnessed at the Monastery, I am not sure we want to raise her ire.”
“Nonsense, Guild Master! Get your personal feelings out of this. You are to go see her and convince her to help us. She lives only because of our technology.”
“Sir, that is a one-sided view. If I were in her position I would put more emphasis on the dagger one of my Adepts shoved in her back, then on Hume’s accidental resurrection of her,” said Saint-Yves.
“I gave you an order Guild Master. Make your travel arrangements to London,” finished Crocus, ending the conversation.
Saint-Yves knew from the tone that the conversation was over. He would need to go through the motions and go to London to see Angelica. His stomach rolled as he thought about a chance to see her again but then remembering the woman she loved now possessed the physical form of his deceased friend’s daughter. A man who had died at the hands of the creatures he had created with the arcane knowledge he possessed. He wasn’t sure if the feeling was trepidation at meeting with Angelica again or the direction his Order was taking. He turned and left the room.
* * *
2:05 A.M. The Courtyard of the Necronist Temple, Paris, France
Caspar’s attention shot from assuring he was not detected in the courtyard while to the discussions of Napoleon’s death priests. He needed to burn these names into his mind so that he could relay this information back to Duke Gorber for his agents to pursue.
He now knew the French Emperor’s health was waning and the cultists of whom he relied on were out of tricks. He also had names, Hume and Du Moya burnt into his memory. Finally, there may be a way to break the French Tyrant’s influence on the continent. He had learned in officer school of the Emperor’s tactics; the man was a military genius. After The bloodbath at Leipzig the Grand Army tactically retreated from Germany rather than the coalition pursuing them into France. Behind the scenes the French and British foreign minister had reached an agreement to lift the mutual blockades and open commerce. That, coupled with Prussia’s focus on reuniting the German confederation, sapped the strength of the Coalition, leaving Europe in a military stalemate.
“Dubois have Seer Landrue join me,” commanded Crocus.
This snapped Caspar back from his musings. Maybe he would glean some more details on the state of Napoleon.
He could hear the sounds of Crocus in his office and then a knock at the door.
“Enter.”
“Seer Dubois said you wanted to see me,”
“Landrue, I have a mission for you that is of the utmost importance to me and our Emperor,” confided Crocus.
“I am here to be of service,” said the newest voice.
As Crocus laid out the tasks for Seer Landrue, Caspar began to understand how desperate the High Guild Master’s situation was.
8
Tuesday the 30th of April, 1861
10:40 A.M. Hawkin’s House Paddington, England
Angelica gazed out the window of her third story bedroom, onto the park in the quaint square. She watched a steam lorry pull up in front of number four Bandford Square. Two gentlemen exited, she was happy to see the improved condition of the one man; the last time she’d seen him he was near death and possessed by another. She grabbed a knit shawl from the back of the chair and stopped to fix her hair in the looking glass. Angelica was still shocked when she saw the face of the young Caucasian girl reflected to her, rather than how she remembered her physical form from the past.
When she opened the door to her bedroom she saw the spirit forms of a half dozen cats dart out of the hall and into her room. Glancing back, she could see the spirit of spinster Hawkins rocking in the chair where she had picked up her shawl. The room where she slept was the sitting room of the old owner of the home. Angelica was still sensitive to those holding on to this world and commonly saw the apparitions of the spinster or her herd of cats moving about the house.
She stopped and watched them crowd around the old lady’s skirt. Showing the old bird affection even beyond this world. The lines blurred between the real and the spiritual for Angelica having walked on both sides of death.
Angelica made her way down hallway and knocked on the door. She heard the heavy metal footsteps and the pneumatic hisses of the other guest. The door opened and there stood almost to the top of the door jamb a man -shaped automaton. Inside the construct of gears and pistons was a gemulet that housed the soul of Azul Hassan, the ancient Persian who had possessed the man downstairs.
“Mistress Angelica how are
you today?” asked Azul in his metallic voice.
“Sad that you will be leaving. Preston is here with the lorry,” replied Angelica. She thought it strange that she just admitted how she felt to anyone, let alone a ghost operating a automaton.
Much of her time she had spent brooding and planning. Her son was out in the world somewhere being influenced by the one known as Caiaphas. Reflecting, she understood how her emotions could easily overcome her. While Rose had been trying so hard to make Angelica feel at home here and had pushed her to spend time with Enzo, it was Angelica’s conversations with Azul that had a therapeutic effect.
Angelica put her hand on the chest of Azul. It began almost imperceptible, the lace on her small wrist began to unfold and black wisps of inky smoke formed into tendrils that moved over the skin of her hand and onto the chest of Azul. The ichor she controlled found its way between the seams of his outer metal and leather skin, deftly maneuvering about the inner workings of his construct. She sensed the energy of the chemical batteries in his chest, the current flowing to a compressor that pumped oil into the systems that articulated the arms and legs of the automaton.
Her tentacles found the heart of the machine man, behind the battery case was the gemulet construct that Rose had made and connected to the machine. Angelica had used her training as a Voodoo Hougan to transport Azul from Preston into this new vessel. She now appreciated using the Pwen Hannan ritual to save a life rather than to take a life after getting to know Azul. At the time it was a tradeoff, she would help the White Witch and in return for help, Rose would locate Angelica’s son. Now that time had passed she had seen the positive impact of her choice in her interactions with Azul.
