“You have no appreciation for science,” said Sklodowska.
“There’s no time for bickering,” said Doyle. He pulled up a stool, climbed atop it, and began to unscrew the large bolts connecting the transmitter to the module.
“Wait,” said Sklodowska. “What about the children?”
Doyle paused. He gripped the transmitter so tight that his knuckles began turning white. Wells knew Doyle well enough to understand the sort of emotional struggle playing out in his mind, even if his face remained calm.
“We’re here to complete the mission,” said Doyle. “This Doctor Freud won’t have cause to harm the little ones, not if we render his lab inoperable.” He resumed untwisting the bolts.
“There are innocent children being held captive in this building, away from their families, and probably terrified. Life as a spy may have made you immune to such plight, but I haven’t been hanging around secret agents long enough to lose my humanity.” Sklodowska stared at each of the three men in turn. “I’m not leaving here without those kids. Who’s with me?”
“She’s right,” said Wells. “How can we claim to protect humanity if we value the success of our mission above the safety of children?”
Curie nodded, and moved over to stand next to Sklodowska.
“Very well,” said Doyle. “Go and find them while I dislodge our property from this gaudy collection of scrap metal. Meet me back at the submarine.”
Doyle grunted as he redoubled his efforts to unscrew the bolts without a wrench.
Wells, Curie, and Sklodowska descended the stairs to where Pétain indicated the children were being kept. The chambers on the lower level must have been prison cells. Each had a thick wooden door with an observation window covered with metal bars.
There were muffled noises coming from inside one of the cells. The agents proceeded with caution, peeking in through the security window.
The children were awake, and there was no sign of a guard. Most of the prison cell floor was covered with a row of six low-lying cots. Some dolls and wooden cubes were scattered on the ground, largely ignored by the children.
Five of them were very young, three boys and two girls who looked to be of kindergarten age. Some sat on their cots and others roamed the room, making half-hearted attempts at play. There was no laughter or horseplay. The children seemed defeated, as though they had been robbed of the wonder and curiosity that is the hallmark of youth. The sixth boy was older, perhaps ten. He stretched out on a cot, his feet dangling off. All the children were scrawny and none appeared particularly athletic.
“These are the future super-soldiers?” whispered Wells.
“I think that one just ate his own booger,” said Curie.
Sklodowska frowned at the two men and turned the handle. The door creaked in protest as it opened wide. Six pairs of eyes turned toward her.
“Hush.” Sklodowska raised a finger to her lips. “It’s going to be okay. We’re here to get you out.”
The kids all spoke at once, with blatant disregard for Sklodowska’s plea for silence, and in a variety of different languages. A little boy who was clutching a threadbare blanket stared at Wells for a long moment and then wailed at a volume far exceeding what one might have expected from his diminutive form. Sklodowska rushed toward the crying child with the two agents in tow, but their rapid advance resulted in several of the other kids joining the chorus.
The trio did what they could to calm the children down. Wells felt they were on the verge of success when their efforts were interrupted by a squad of underdressed yet heavily armed men at the door.
Wells sat on one of the small cots and did his best to ignore the pandemonium of a half dozen small children flitting across the small room around him. He felt terrible. The Paris assignment was an undeserved punishment for his failure to deliver functioning weather machine technology from the Russian Empire. He accepted the dead-end assignment without complaint and spent two years overseeing construction, and running interference with detractors as Eiffel and his company built the enormous eyesore of an antenna in the heart of Paris. He was doing well, and was certain Sue Ann MacLean would recognize his accomplishments and send him on real missions, full of adventure and excitement, after the World’s Fair ended. And then everything went to hell.
In the last forty-eight hours the space transmitter was stolen right in front of him, he had to be rescued by MacLean herself from the stasis trap in Verne’s office, and was now once again captured by the bad guys. Verne’s men frisked Wells and his companions, confiscating weapons and gadgets, and then simply left them there, locked in the same room with the children they had intended to rescue.
Wells sighed. With this sort of track record, MacLean could hardly be expected to let him serve porridge in the Ministry cafeteria, let alone become involved in real spy craft again. Assuming he survived the visit to this accursed island at all. He watched Curie and Sklodowska, talking quietly in the corner of the room and sitting a little closer together than was strictly proper.
It was nearly an hour after their capture that the doors opened again. A man in his thirties swaggered in, surrounded by armed goons.
He wore an immaculate gray three-piece suit. Diamond-studded cufflinks glinted from under the sleeves of his jacket, fastening a perfectly starched white shirt. A thick lit cigar dangled from the corner of his mouth. He cocked his head as he examined the agents, one by one.
He puffed a ring of smoke and held the cigar between his index and middle fingers. “So this is what the finest clandestine services in all of Europe send to thwart me? A motley band of bumbling amateurs. It’s no wonder you failed; let those who underestimate Sigmund Freud do so at their own peril.”
Wells jumped up but the goons prevented him from approaching their leader. “How dare you besmirch us, Freud? Your insults hold no sting, coming from a thief and a kidnapper. Did you gather these tots by luring them into a windowless stagecoach with a promise of candy?”
Freud bellowed a hearty laugh. “Kidnap them? Their parents begged me to treat them. They’ve been carefully selected for a clinical trial from hundreds of qualified applicants.”
“Their parents wanted you to zap them with rays and turn them into super soldiers?” Wells snorted. “A likely story.”
“Soldiers?” Freud raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even understand why we’re here. What need do I have of soldiers? Future wars will be fought by tanks and automatons, not men with bayonets. The conflicts of the twentieth century won’t be won with super soldiers, but super generals.
“These children are developmentally delayed. My machine can treat them. It can alter their brain chemistry and change their lives for the better. They could be gifted rather than dim! And once they possess the intellectual capacity to decide such things, I hope they will be grateful enough to accept me as a father figure and let me train them.” Freud stepped forward and patted the head of the oldest child, who was drooling as he stared off into space. “When Al grows up, we shall rule Europe as father and son!”
“Super-smart teenage military commanders? There’s something to this…” Curie scratched his chin. He was promptly elbowed by Sklodowska.
“You can justify yourself to us all you want,” said Wells. “It won’t change the fact that you’re insane.”
“I wouldn’t waste my time seeking your approval,” said Freud. “I do, however, need to get rid of your compatriot who locked himself in my lab and is threatening to blow it up should anyone attempt to go in.”
“Ha! Go, Arthur!” Sklodowska pumped her fist.
“Why would we ever help you?” asked Wells.
“Who said anything about asking for your help? You’re leverage.” Freud snapped his fingers. “Bring them,” he told his men. “Kids, too.”
Prodded by Freud’s men, Wells and the others ascended the stairs and walked to the barred entrance into the lab.
“Arthur, is it?” Freud shouted at the door. “I have your friends. Open the door and
leave the equipment be, and all of you get to live. Otherwise…” He held out his hand to the nearest subordinate until the other man handed him a pistol. Freud tested its weight in his hand and pointed it at Sklodowska. “I think I will shoot the girl, first. You have one minute.”
Gun pointed squarely at the scientist, Freud withdrew a pocket watch with his other hand and waited for the seconds to tick off.
“He won’t do it,” said Wells, injecting as much confidence into his voice as he could muster. “Could you be any more of a stereotypical villain? You’re a handlebar mustache away from being an operetta character.”
“Say what you will,” said Freud past the cigar clenched between his teeth, “but unlike fictional characters I’m not prone to long-winded speeches. Also, I don’t bluff.” He put away his watch and cocked the hammer on the pistol.
Curie moved in front of Sklodowska, shielding her. “You will have to shoot me first,” he told Freud.
“Very well,” said Freud and pulled the trigger.
The sound of the shot rang through the fort. Hit at almost point-blank range, Curie grunted and collapsed onto the ground. Sklodowska screamed and grabbed at his torso, propping him up in her arms. A dark red stain was spreading quickly just below his right shoulder.
Startled by the loud noise, several of the children began to cry.
“That’s one,” said Freud, his voice perfectly calm, as though he were discussing the weather. He retrieved the watch. “Fifteen seconds this time.”
For a long moment, everyone but the crying children was silent. Then Doyle shouted from behind the door, “Stop. I’m coming out.” There was a sound of a lock being turned and Doyle stepped through, his arms raised.
Freud nodded and handed the gun to the nearest henchman. He peeked inside the lab. “Where’s the transmitter?” he asked Doyle.
“It’s on the counter,” said Doyle, his eyes on Curie’s wound.
Freud took another puff of his cigar and looked over the lab. “Why don’t you go ahead and reattach it,” he told Doyle. “Just in case you set up any… complications.”
If looks could kill, Doyle would have incinerated Freud on the spot. He said nothing but headed back into the lab and got to work.
Sklodowska ministered to Curie as best she could. She removed his jacket and used it to stem the flow of blood. “He needs medical attention,” she told Freud. “Help him! You said everybody would live.”
“I’m not that kind of doctor,” said Freud. But he nodded to one of his men, who ran down the hall and returned with a medicine bag. The bullet missed vital organs, which was little consolation to Curie as he winced in pain on the floor, his head in Sklodowska’s lap. The henchman crouched over Curie, and began ministering to the wound.
Doyle finished reaffixing the transmitter to the rest of the machinery and stepped back. Freud walked into the lab and motioned for the others to follow. Most of the henchmen filed in behind him, prodding Wells along. A few remained to watch over Sklodowska and Curie.
Freud examined the various modules closely. “It does not appear to have been sabotaged. And yet, how can I trust you to have resisted meddling with my machine while you were locked in here?” Freud beckoned to the tallest of the children. “Al, why don’t you come and stand right over here, there’s a good boy.”
The gangly ten-year-old stepped onto the elevated platform. There was a goofy grin on his face as he stared into the barrel of the transmitter-enhanced ray gun aimed at him from above.
“If you did leave a nasty surprise, now would be the time to speak up,” Freud told Doyle. “You wouldn’t want to jeopardize the well-being of this child, would you?”
Doyle stared down Freud with utter loathing, but remained silent. Freud shrugged, and nodded to one of his men, who pulled a lever. The machine sprung to life all around them, strange energies buzzing in thick glass tubes, steam pumping through brass pipes, steel gears picking up speed as they turned.
The barrel-shaped module that was suspended at a forty-five degree angle and aimed at the circular panel on the ground emitted a high-pitched noise and began to shake. Al appeared mesmerized by its barrel, his mouth slightly agape. The idea to move out of its line of fire didn’t seem to occur to him.
The noise reached its crescendo and a jagged lightning bolt shot from the module, enveloping Al in a cocoon of crackling energy. Having discharged the bolt, the machine died, filling the room with smoke and a smell of burning rubber.
“I knew it!” Freud advanced on Doyle. “What did you do?”
“I did nothing at all. Whatever design flaw had caused this malfunction is your own fault,” said Doyle.
Freud rushed over to Al and grabbed him by the shirt. “How do you calculate the circumference of a circle?”
Al appeared mostly unharmed, except for his hair, which turned bleach white and stuck out wildly in every direction. He stared at Freud without a glimmer of comprehension.
“He isn’t a genius,” Freud let go of the child’s shirt. “He doesn’t even comprehend the concept of Pi.”
“Mmmm, pie…” said Al.
Freud threw his cigar on the ground and stomped on it in frustration. “I was so sure it would work. All the calculations were perfect, and the transmitter was supposed to enhance and refine the ray…” He trailed off, shoulders slumped. “And what is that noise?”
The sound of a steam engine was coming from outside the fort, and getting louder. Everyone rushed toward the windows. A gargantuan dirigible was approaching the island from the south, at an incredible speed. As it reached the fort, Wells recognized the unique engineering of Count von Zeppelin.
The airship reached the island, flew over the moat, and began its descent onto the courtyard in front of the fort. Some trigger-happy henchman fired at the approaching behemoth. Annie Oakley leaned over the side of the gondola, a savage grin on her face and two very large guns in her hands. She opened fire on the fort, each bullet exploding with the force of a small hand grenade. She devastated the array of cannons at the top of the fort and kept Verne’s men suppressed until the dirigible completed its descent.
Sue Ann MacLean jumped out of the gondola the moment the airship touched the ground. She raced toward the fort, followed by Annie Oakley, Mori Ogai, and a half dozen other agents from around the world.
A few of Verne’s men were brave or foolish enough to stand up to the onslaught. They fired at the advancing agents, but MacLean’s spaulder emitted a one-way force shield in front of the entire group which deflected incoming bullets with ease, yet didn’t prevent the agents from firing an array of projectile, laser, and pulse weapons at the defenders. The fight was over almost before it began.
When MacLean and her team reached the lab, Freud put up no resistance. “I was so certain. I checked the calculations three times. It should have worked,” he kept saying as he was led away.
With the cleanup well in hand, and her people tending to the children, rounding up prisoners, and providing Curie with medical attention, MacLean beckoned Wells over, away from the others. He steeled himself for the epic chewing-out to come.
“Thank you, Agent Wells,” said MacLean.
“Um. What?” Wells stared, shocked, at his boss.
“All the things you said about cooperation between agencies, about us needing to work together – you were right.” MacLean shuffled from foot to foot, unaccustomed to admitting fault. “I spent some time thinking about it and decided to follow your advice. I called a meeting and told the representatives of the other agencies everything. We pooled our resources and worked together to take down Freud.
“This is how it’s going to be from now on,” said MacLean, “Britain and France, Russia and China, America and the Ottoman Empire – everyone setting aside their politics to unite against common threats. The twentieth century truly is when everything changes. We’re going to be ready.”
Wells nodded in relief. His own future was looking a little brighter, too.
“Come.”
MacLean walked over to Sklodowska with Wells in tow.
“Doyle tells me you’ve conducted yourself very well, young lady,” said MacLean. “I’d be honored to employ you as one of my agents.”
“Thank you,” said Sklodowska, “but I think I’m going to stay in Paris for a while. Pierre is going to need someone to look after him while he recovers.” She looked over to where a doctor was bandaging Curie’s wound. “He may be an obnoxious boor, but he took a bullet for me.”
“I knew you couldn’t resist my charms for long,” Curie called out.
Sklodowska snorted. “You see? A boor. I will stay only long enough to see him recover. After that, if I never see his smug face again, it will be too soon.”
Wells leaned against the wall. With the danger gone and adrenaline draining from his body, he felt very tired.
“Go on,” said MacLean. “You deserve to rest. Go find a bed. It will be a while until we sort everything out. My first priority is to get these children back to their parents.”
Wells stifled a yawn and headed off in search of an unoccupied room. He caught the eye of Al, who towered over the other children, his wild hair making him seem even taller. Wells waved at him.
The young Albert Einstein waved back.
Afterword
The world of H. G. Wells, Secret Agent came to exist because I was asked to contribute a story to a steampunk anthology. I was eager to play, but I also knew my limitations. I’m no expert on Victorian-era England. Whatever I wrote, there would be a high likelihood of people pointing fingers and shouting: “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. The whalebone corset wasn’t even invented until eighteen-something-something!”
I could study up on the Victorians, but I chose to be lazy and write an alternate history yarn instead.
Also, I knew this would have to be a comedy. It’s what I know how to write best and I thought it would make the story stand out, since there isn’t all that much steampunk humor out there. So, now we have alternate-history steampunk humor as a genre. No matter what, this one would sure be different.
H. G. Wells, Secret Agent Page 6
