The sub-lieutenant now sat with his back inches from the boiler, two pannier tanks either side of him. The more coal the professor shovelled, the hotter the boiler was getting. Yet still the prisoner was being increasingly uncooperative. Folkard really did not wish to resort to violence, but he was running out of both time and patience.
“Skaji mne gde nahodista Doktor Grant.”
The Russian looked Folkard up and down, his lips twisted in disgust. “Idi k chortu, Britanskaya svinya! Slava Rossiykoi Imperii budet bezgranichna.”
Folkard frowned. His Russian was rusty. He had so little need to practice it, and had not dealt directly with Russians for a long while. Now, if it had been a German camp he would have known exactly what his captive had said. Folkard straightened up. Something about hell and glory he felt sure, and the Russian Empire.
“How are we doing, Professor?” he asked, stepping away from his prisoner.
Stone looked up from the heat of the burning coal he had just shovelled into the chamber. Through the black soot on his face, he beamed a smile. “Refreshingly well, Captain,” he said, and stood up straight, resting one arm on the shovel. Folkard noted the bandage on the professor’s left hand was filthy. More grey than white. “I think perhaps I missed my calling. I was never a boy who wanted to drive a locomotive train, but maybe I ought to have been.”
“Something to think on when we return to Earth.”
“Quite so, Captain,” the professor responded with a large grin.
“And how is our erstwhile driver faring?”
Stone looked at K’chuk who was pulling gently on the screw-reverser. “Enjoying himself a little too much. What do you think, K’chuk?”
Without turning his head, the Selenite responded; “We near camp.”
“Splendid.” Folkard looked down at his captive. “You are about my size,” he said, “so a temporary rank reduction is in order.”
3.
NATHANIAL REALLY was not too sure about this. So he said so. Captain Folkard, now dressed in the uniform previously worn by their Russian captive looked up from the lower deck of the Mole Drill.
“Sub-Poruchik now, Professor,” Folkard replied with a grin on his face, and placed his neatly folded uniform on a small shelf along the bulkhead of the vehicle. “Calling me captain out there just might attract a little bit too much attention. Attention we most certainly have no wish of courting.”
“Naturally not. But that is rather my point. K’chuk and I will attract unwanted attention. I for one do not possess even a smattering of Russian and K’chuk…well, he is a little conspicuous just being what he is.”
Folkard considered this, as he walked the length of the interior and stopped at the foot of the ladder. “K’chuk, are there other Selenites like you in the Russian camp?”
K’chuk looked down at Folkard. “Not like K’chuk. Retainers of knowledge dead or soon dead.”
“Soon dead?” Folkard asked.
“I believe I understand,” Nathanial said, and turned to K’chuk. “They are being tortured. But why? To what end?”
For a moment K’chuk did not reply. He looked away, his compound eyes once more focusing on the view through the small slit by which the driver of the Mole Drill navigated. “I not say. Sacred.”
Nathanial continued to stare at the back of K’chuk’s rusty head. This all had something to do with the glow, he felt certain. Tereshkov had discovered something, something that had caught the interest of Doctor Grant, something that was sacred to the Selenites. It just had to be related to the glow in some way. No wonder the drones were so willing to rebel…Just like the ants on Earth, the Selenites would protect that which was important to them.
Folkard was looking thoughtful, but he did not press the issue. In truth they both knew that they had received more help from K’chuk and his Selenites than they deserved. He shook it away and smiled.
“One final thing to complete my disguise. If you would care to make some room for me, Professor?” he asked, as he took to the ladder.
Nathanial stepped back as far as he could without brushing into the controls of the backhead, and allowed room for the captain. Folkard reached for the head of the shovel and rubbed his hands into the coal dust, which he then proceeded to rub across his face. Nathanial glanced down at the restrained prisoner, now only in his under garments, and nodded. Coupled with the sweat already forming due to the vicinity of the burning coal and the boiler, Folkard’s face now looked somewhat similar to that of the prisoner.
“A stupendous disguise,” Nathanial said, “however this still does not negate my previous concern.”
“Yes.” Folkard climbed back down the ladder. “What to do with you and K’chuk? Perhaps a solution will reveal itself when we enter the camp.”
“We can but hope.” Nathanial peered over K’chuk’s head. There was a glimmer of light ahead. “I believe we are just about there.”
4.
EVEN SEEN through the small partition it was quite an impressive sight. After all the tunnels and small caves, Folkard was beginning to think that was all there was to the secret underground world of Luna. Not so.
The Mole Drill emerged from a narrow tunnel, just big enough to fit the vehicle through, onto an upper level overlooking a wide open space, just over a mile in diameter. At the far end of the open area was a reservoir, taking up a good sixty percent of the overall area, running from the furthest wall out to a bank directly before the Mole Drill. To their left was a bore drilling platform, the massive drill grinding its way into the lunar ground. Selenites of various size and shape were scattered around the drilling area, carrying what looked like buckets of coal away from the area, which they deposited into large bunkers some distance away. From those bunkers other Selenites worked, slowly loading small one-man aerial flyers which then transported the collected minerals out of the large cavern to whatever waited beyond. Folkard suspected that to be the aether flyer that he been seen travelling from and to Luna from time to time. The Selenites were guarded by armed Russian okhrana, rifles at the ready and whips in hand. On the right bank of the reservoir stood a fenced-off compound, within which could be seen many Selenites of the same shade as K’chuk. Some were lying lifeless on the rocky ground, while others shuffled about with what Folkard could only describe as limps. The tortured retainers of knowledge. A row of tents sat nearby, some small, others much larger. This was the command centre of the Russian okhrana. It seemed logical that the commander of the okhrana would want to be in the heart of his operation, rather than safe and secure on an ironclad flyer. Logical only because this operation had clearly been taking place for some time, and the governments of the world had no idea. Folkard would ensure that situation soon changed.
“I see no sign of civilian life, Professor. Can you spot Doctor Grant?”
“Perhaps he is in one of those tents?” Stone ruminated. “Or perhaps not. Over there!” The professor pointed back to a space near the bore drill.
Folkard looked closer, and sure enough he saw two civilians, with an armed guard. They were walking from the drill platform to what appeared to be some kind of wooden lift, which itself hovered above an open chasm. The taller of the two civilians, with wild white hair on his head, was talking to a soldier in the okhrana.
“Tereshkov,” Folkard said, referring to the wild haired old man, and continued to watch as the men stopped by the lift platform. Tereshkov and the soldier finished their discussion, Doctor Grant looking to the ground, much less enthused by the conversation than the Russians were. The soldier turned and walked away, leaving Tereshkov, Grant and their guard to climb onto the lift platform. “We need to get to that lift. K’chuk, guide the Mole Drill in that direction.”
As K’chuk obeyed, and Professor Stone resumed shovelling coal into the chamber, Folkard turned to their prisoner. “Just what is your game here?” The man ignored him, merely glaring in response, his jaw firm and determined. Folkard narrowed his eyes. He did not much care for Russians as a rule, but if
that man had been one of his own men Folkard knew he would immediately respect such resolve. “Professor,” he said sharply, spinning on his heels, “just how close to the gorge would you say we are?”
“Hard to ascertain. I was keeping a rather good mental map of our journey through the tunnels, but since we commandeered this Mole Drill, well, I am afraid shovelling coal has taken precedence.”
Folkard could not help but smile at that. Although he hardly imagined the professor taking up the calling of a locomotive fireman, he did seem to be fitting into the role quite snugly. Folkard supposed when you spent your entire life trying to impress others, a position with little expectations had to be rather refreshing. “What would be your best guess?”
“I suspect close. Those flyers transporting the coal must be going somewhere…”
“Yes, I suspect to an aether flyer that is berthed nearby. No doubt transporting the coal to Earth, making someone in Russia quite wealthy.”
Stone nodded. “That seems reasonable. Coupled with the presence of Doctors Grant and Tereshkov, we can safely assume we are in close proximity to the source of the glow, and thus the mouth of the gorge.” For a moment Folkard was silent, as he digested this information, until the professor interrupted his thoughts. “What are you thinking, Captain?”
“I was thinking about the small team I sent to investigate the bottom of the gorge.”
“The men in the cutter? Oh, I see. I do not suppose they would have fared well against an ironclad.”
“Succinctly put, Professor. Although that is not to say they were all killed.”
“Taken captive?”
Folkard nodded.
Professor Stone’s expression turned grim. It was a look that did not suit the usually open young man. He indicated their own captive. “Perhaps we can trade?”
It was an option Folkard had not considered. With reason. “Out of the question, Professor. Even if the Russians were willing to trade, I will not barter for a man’s life, be it one of mine or theirs. No, we shall proceed with my plan.”
“And just what is that plan, Captain?”
5.
THE PLAN seemed simple enough, but Nathanial was not so sure he cared for it. K’chuk had been helpful to them, trusted them, not to mention he had saved Captain Folkard’s life. It seemed a rum thing to do, to put K’chuk in the line of fire like this. Folkard had explained to K’chuk exactly what he wanted, and why, and K’chuk had agreed readily. Yet still the plan did not sit well with Nathanial. Nonetheless, the door of the Mole Drill was now open and they were committed to its success.
Nathanial stood back as far as he could, keeping to the shadows, but still not so far from the door that he could not see. Folkard stood on the ramp formed by the lowered door, safe for now in his disguise. They both watched as K’chuk shuffled over to the nearest detail of Selenites. For now none of the Russians seemed to notice, although Nathanial was not entirely sure how, after all K’chuk was taller than most of the Selenites, not to mention a different colour. Maybe the Russians had got so used to seeing them that now it was a case of an ant was an ant.
Slowly a kind of buzzing sound started to spread around; it was the same stridulous sound Nathanial had heard before he saw the first Selenite in the tunnel. It started quietly, barely noticeable, as K’chuk, now picking up coal from the area around the bore drill, began talking to his fellows. Already prepared for his arrival, the response was quick. One by one the drone slaves lowered their coal buckets, and those hefting coal into the buckets merely stopped, stood to their full heights and turned to face their Russian guards.
“Vernutsya k rabote!” yelled one Russian, a phrase that was soon repeated by others. The Selenites did not respond to the command, instead they started advancing on the soldiers, ignoring the whips which lashed against them. “Otkrit ogon!”
Rifle shots rang out, and Selenites began to fall. For a second the remaining Selenites, which numbered in the upper forties, hesitated, until a shrill noise came from K’chuk. Once more the Selenites advanced, a few more fell before the Russians’ weapons, but this time they did not stop.
“Let us proceed, Professor,” Folkard said, aiming his carbine at Nathanial.
Nathanial blinked. “Captain?” he asked, fearing some kind of betrayal.
Folkard looked at the carbine, then smiled. “All part of the ruse, Professor. The bulk of the Russian forces in the reservoir cavern may be distracted, but I am certain there will be a few more soldiers around. A Russian sub-poruchik escorting a prisoner will attract less attention.”
“I see.” Nathanial swallowed hard, and began down the ramp. “To the wooden lift then?”
“That would seem prudent.” Folkard jabbed the carbine into Nathanial’s back. “Prodoljaite, mollusc!”
Nathanial winced but said nothing. They were in the heart of the Russian camp now, and an argumentative prisoner would surely raise one too many eyebrows. Instead, he lowered his head, and continued forward towards the lift. Before he lowered his head, though, he noticed that the Selenites, who outnumbered the Russian guards, now appeared to have the upper hand. It seemed Folkard had secured his army after all.
6.
THEY REACHED the mouth of the tunnel, and Bedford held his hand up for his team to stop. Out before them was a large open area. Directly in front of them was a fenced off compound, wherein they could see several Selenites who looked almost identical to K’ovib. A few walked around, clearly wounded, while others lay on the ground. Either exhausted or dead.
A shrill sound came from K’ovib, which Bedford took to be anger. He placed a hand on one of K’ovib’s fore-legs. “Steady on there. We will avenge your fallen comrades, of that you can be certain.”
“I believe someone had gotten a head start on us, Lieutenant,” Miss Annabelle said, pointing beyond the compound.
Bedford looked. On the opposite side of the reservoir a battle was taking place. Between Russian soldiers and Selenites. Bedford smiled. “I suspect this is Captain Folkard’s work.”
“Most certainly,” Miss Annabelle agreed, “for I assume that is he with Nathanial.”
Sure enough, as Miss Annabelle had said, the captain was indeed with Professor Stone. There was no mistaking the professor’s ginger hair and height. In his suit he looked somewhat out of place, although the dirt covering him helped him to blend in a little. The other man, equally as dirty and dressed in a Russian uniform, standing some eleven inches shorter than the professor, had the bearing of Folkard. As if to confirm Bedford’s supposition, the captain now held his carbine at the head of a Russian guard, all three of them standing on a wooden platform, which stood beneath of a large scaffold of winches and pulleys. The Russian guard reached for a lever and pulled it. The gears of the pulley shifted and the platform began to lower into a chasm below.
“Where are they going?” Miss Annabelle asked.
“I know not, but I will confess,” Bedford replied, lowering his voice so only Miss Annabelle could hear, “I am relieved to see Captain Folkard here. After he left my team behind…well, I have been forced to question why.”
“Well, he is here now, George,” Miss Annabelle said, equally quiet.
Bedford did not respond to that, instead he looked behind at his team of humans and Selenites. “Look sharp,” he said, “it is time for some liberation!”
Chapter Nine
Insect Insurrection
1.
“MISS SOMERSET, I must protest. I cannot allow you to go off on your own.”
Annabelle bit back her initial response. Lieutenant Bedford meant well, but he seemed to be forgetting, once more, that she was not one of his subordinates. She took a deep breath before answering. “Then assign one of your men to me, Lieutenant. Either way, I am going to follow Nathanial and Captain Folkard.”
“No doubt in the hope that they will lead you to your uncle?”
Annabelle met Bedford’s accusatory stare with one of steel. She would not be swayed in her decision. He was
right, of course, there was little doubt that Captain Folkard and Nathanial were following her uncle’s trail. Tereshkov’s hold over Uncle Cyrus had to be severed.
Bedford let out a sigh. “Very well, Miss Somerset, but this is against my better judgement. Sending a woman into that battle is…”
“Are you suggesting I cannot handle myself, Lieutenant?” Annabelle asked, keeping her tone playful. In truth she knew he had only said such a thing to elicit a reaction from her, and so she would give him one, just not the reaction he had hoped for.
Bedford did not immediately reply, instead he attempted to keep his stare steady, and turned slightly before breaking into a smile, once he was sure that neither Miller nor Platt could see him.
“Able Seaman Platt,” he said, and waited for Platt to join them. “Would you accompany Miss Somerset in her foolhardy mission? Make sure no harm comes to her.”
Platt saluted. “Of course, sir.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Annabelle said with a curt nod. “And perhaps a few Selenites?”
At this Bedford shook his head. “No, just you two alone will have a better chance of drawing near to that lift platform unseen. There’s plenty of Selenites in that skirmish over there, and you can be sure that any other Russians not immediately caught up in the battle will be on the lookout for Selenites. If you wish to succeed, then it would be best to limit the attention you may draw.”
Annabelle had already decided such a thing herself, and did not expect Bedford to agree otherwise, but she felt it was her duty to ask for more than she needed. A man like Bedford needed to know that a woman like Annabelle was not one to accept the first offer given her.
“Sound reasoning. Very well, then. Mister Platt, if you are ready?”
Able Seaman Platt checked his carbine, then nodded. “After you, Miss Somerset.”
Annabelle smiled; glad to see that Platt had already ascertained that she was not one to follow. Nodding to Bedford, she turned away, still smiling, and set off. She failed to notice Bedford smiling after her.
series 01 01 Journey to the Heart of Luna Page 13
