A shrill steamy whistle from below had Ulysses peering down again. Beneath them, the Paris to London Express chuffed closer and closer. Clearly the train had left Paris before the Earthquake Machine had been activated.
“There they are!” the parrot squawked, returning Ulysses’ attention to the balloon.
“How far now?” he shouted into the wind.
“Three hundred yards and closing,” the bike’s pilot replied.
Ulysses saw the gas-fired rocket boosters flame before he heard the hot roar of them firing. The basket jerked forwards, the balloon envelope taking a moment to catch up, and then the whole was moving away from the velocipede at an increasing rate of knots.
“They’re getting away!” Ulysses exclaimed helplessly from the back of the bike.
“They’re getting away!” the parrot squawked.
“I know! I can still see!” Cadence retorted.
Ulysses hated not being in control. He would never have described himself as a control freak, but his current helplessness was exposing him as a terrible backseat driver.
“But they won’t be for long.”
Cadence shifted her grip on the throttle, her thumb hovering over the red button.
“Hang on to something!” she shouted, and ignited the velocipede’s turbo boost.
Ulysses grabbed hold of Cadence, wrapping his arms tight about her waist as the bike rocketed forwards. It ate up the distance between them and the balloon, the inflated envelope rapidly filling Ulysses’ field of view.
“That’s more like it!” Ulysses thrilled.
“I know, but it burns fuel like there’s no tomorrow.” Cadence shouted.
They were so close now he could hear the terrorists’ cries of alarm rising from below.
“Pull up! Pull up!” the parrot demanded as Cadence closed on the balloon.“Can you get me over the top?” Ulysses called.
“Yes,” the pilot replied, “but why?”
“Well... It’s the parachute situation I mentioned earlier.”
“What parachutes?”
“Precisely.”
“I was in a hurry,” Cadence threw back. “I had a British agent to save from certain cyber-ape-induced death! Remember?”
“I remember,” Ulysses muttered.
Cadence grunted and gunned the throttle, adjusting the angle of the ailerons and setting the velocipede into a slow climb.
The stitched canvas of the balloon, the envelope taut with mooring lines, hove into position below them.
And then the turbo boost sputtered and died.
“What happened?” Ulysses froze, half out of the saddle, his hands on Cadence’s shoulders.
“It can’t be possible!” the young woman gasped.
“What?” the dandy pressed.
“We’re almost out of fuel. But how can that be?”
“Um, I might have made use of the turbo boost myself whilst engaged in my bid to rescue you,” Ulysses explained apologetically. “How long have we got?”
He could see that the balloon was already starting to pull away from them, the inflated canvas, the ropes and lines passing out of reach underneath the bike.
“Actually, don’t bother answering that.” His view of the balloon had begun to be replaced by the distant meadows and forests of Nord Pas De Calais.
Standing on the seat behind her, his hands on her shoulders to balance himself, Ulysses leaned forward. Cadence turning in surprise, curious to see what he was doing.
“Thanks for everything,” he said in her ear and, as she opened her mouth to respond, kissed her. Breaking contact, he turned his attention to the balloon drifting out of reach.
“Here goes nothing!” the parrot squawked, and Ulysses jumped.
“THEY’RE RETREATING!” MOREAU exclaimed.
“Are you sure?” Leroux was beside him in an instant. The mask was gone now, the need for anonymity having long passed, his pale blond hair whipping about the top of his head in the downdraft from the burners.
“I’m sure. Look!” The doctor pointed.
Sure enough, there was the steam-powered flying velocipede the silverback had chased through the bustling streets of Paris.
“What are they doing? Is this some kind of trick?” As someone who planned every detail of every scheme down to the last detail, Le Papillon didn’t believe in chance and so was suspicious to the last. “Why would they do that? Why would they fall back when they’re so close?”
“We’re a long way from Paris,” Moreau said, his tone suggesting that the answer should be obvious to anyone, “and there’s no such thing as a limitless power supply; so I’m guessing they’re running low on fuel.”
“As simple as that?”
“As simple as that.”
“So what will happen to them now?”
“Well if the girl’s any kind of a pilot she’ll probably glide her contraption down to the ground. If not, then their descent will be much faster and the landing one they’re less likely to walk away from.”
“Nothing’s as simple as that.”
“Why can’t it be, just for once?” Moreau sighed. “We’re almost at the coast. No one has a hope of catching us now.”
“Aha! No! Look!” Le Papillon shouted in triumph, pointing at the receding bike as it banked left, breaking off its pursuit. “Quicksilver’s gone!” And then his tone of triumph became one of annoyance as realisation dawned. “Which means he’s...”
There was the whizzing sound of something sliding down a rope at speed, and then the slack crown line went taut as a figure swung into view from beyond the curve of the balloon envelope above them.
“On the balloon,” the dandy adventurer finished for him as he swung himself into the basket, planting both feet squarely in the middle of the anarchist’s chest, sending him flying.
ULYSSES LANDED HARD in the bottom of the basket, setting the balloon rocking. At the same time, Leroux landed in a crumpled heap on the other side of the basket.
Adrenalin masking the dull ache of his various injuries, Ulysses grabbed hold of a rope and used it to pull himself to his feet as Le Papillon came at him. From somewhere up above came the hiss of hot air escaping the canvas envelope.
Ulysses ducked the man’s clumsy swipe and came up under him, lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing down on the wicker floor of the basket.
But the butterfly-collector was already on his feet again, an expression of undiluted fury on his face, the balloon’s anchor in his hands. Ulysses took a step backwards as the enraged man adjusted his grip on the heavy iron grapple, ready to hurl it at Ulysses.
The dandy suddenly found himself remembering the last time he had been inside a hot air balloon. How long ago had it been? Two years? Longer? Travelling in time really messed with your sense of its passing. What he did recall was that on that occasion, things hadn’t ended well.
Below them the Paris to London Express whistled loudly, closer than before. The balloon was losing height, and fast.
With a grunt of effort, Leroux heaved the anchor in Ulysses’ direction. Taking a step forward, Ulysses caught the swinging anchor in his right hand. He gave a gasp of pain as the weight of it pulled at his shoulder, but used its momentum to swing him round as he landed a punch that sent Leroux crashing into the bottom of the basket again.
And as he swung the punch, he let go of the anchor, the grapple sailing over the edge of the basket, its tethering rope unspooling wildly after it.
The train whistled again, louder still.
Stepping back from the floored villains, Ulysses dared a glance over the edge of the basket. He could see the roofs of the carriages speeding past beneath and the blur of the track beyond.
The train whistled a third time. What was the fuss? he wondered.
The railway track approaching the coast, fields giving way to a cluster of buildings, the station, a myriad platforms, the sparkle of the morning sun on the calm sea beyond – and between them the gaping black mouth of Isambard Kingdom Bru
nel’s Trans-Channel Tunnel.
The last time Ulysses had passed this way was when had ridden the train through the tunnel himself on his way home to Magna Britannia, after being presumed dead for a year and a half.
The basket suddenly lurched, so much so that Ulysses almost found himself tipped out. The two villains groaned as they tumbled backwards across the bottom of the basket.
The dandy clung on as the speeding balloon matched the speed of the hurtling train, the basket tilted sharply. The anchor line was stretched taut between the balloon and the rear of guardsman’s carriage, where the iron grapple had snagged around the handrail.
This being the express, the train showed no signs of slowing down as it approached the station. Passing straight through, it ate up the yards – not miles now – that remained between them and the mouth of the tunnel.
The balloon was no longer losing height and Ulysses didn’t like to imagine what would happen when it collided with the heavily-reinforced tunnel mouth.
Perhaps if he could cut the rope...
He looked around the basket. He saw a couple of rucksacks and sand-bags hung from hooks in the leather-covered rim, but there was no sign of an axe or even a knife that he could use to cut through the tether. Behind him, Leroux stirred.
That left only one option, as far as Ulysses was concerned.
Whipping off his belt, placing the leather strap over the taut mooring rope, Ulysses pulled it into a tight loop, before looping it around both his wrists, and then jumped.
The train’s whistle suddenly deafening, drowning out the sound of the wind in his ears and the whizz of scorched leather on rope, Ulysses slid down the length of the anchor line, tumbling into the back of the guard’s van just as it entered the mouth of the Trans-Channel Tunnel.
Picking himself up, he opened the door at the rear of the train and threw himself through, the door slamming shut again behind him.
Putting a hand to the bundle of papers stuffed into his jacket pocket, a wry smile forming on his face, an exhausted and dishevelled Ulysses Quicksilver set off for First Class.
BEHIND HIM, AS the Paris to London Express disappeared underground, the balloon collided with the tunnel mouth. Its burner housing crumpled and buckled. Gas canisters ruptured, and the canvas envelope was consumed by a ball of angry orange fire as the fuel cylinders exploded.
CHAPTER EIGHT
One-Way Ticket to Hell
THE ATTENDANT PEERED down his nose at the ragged man with an eye-patch sitting in the well-upholstered seat in First Class, noting the way his filthy hands had already marked the pristine white coverings on the arm-rests with barely-disguised disgust. But before he could open his mouth to say anything and have the vagabond ejected from the train, the man took a ticket from a pocket of his soiled jacket and handed it over. “I think you’ll find everything’s in order,” he said with a smile.
First Class wasn’t busy – it certainly hadn’t been hard for Ulysses to find a seat – but that didn’t alter the fact that the attendant would clearly have much rather seen the dishevelled dandy ejected from the train than allowed him to remain in this carriage a moment longer. And yet, faced with the insurmountable evidence of the paper-work in front of him, it seemed that the attendant couldn’t argue against Ulysses’ right to do just that.
The express rattled on its way through the darkness under the sea as the man took what seemed to Ulysses an inordinate amount of time checking his papers. For a moment the dandy even began to wonder whether the falsified documents were really as convincing as he had believed them to be.
“Very good, sir,” the attendant said at last, looking like he had just swallowed a wasp. “Enjoy your journey.”
The steward turned to go.
“Are you still serving breakfast?”
“Breakfast, sir?” The scowl was still in place. Nothing was going to shift that look of disgust from his face.
“Yes, you know. The meal that comes between supper and lunch.”
“I suppose I can check for you, sir, if you would like.”
“I would like,” Ulysses replied, smiling through the grime and blood. “A couple of croissants will do.” The attendant turned to go again. “Oh, and a copy of The Times if you can find one.”
Without another word, the steward set off for the dining carriage with what could have been described as grateful haste.
Ulysses raised an arm and gave his jacket a sniff. He did smell a little potent. There was probably a shower somewhere on board for use by First Class passengers. He would have to ask the attendant when he came back with Ulysses’ newspaper and croissants. But there wasn’t any rush. In fact, Ulysses thought as he rested his head against the cushioned rest of his seat, he probably had time to catch forty winks before having to do anything else at all.
Letting his shoulders relax, he felt the tension ooze out of them, and was soon asleep.
ULYSSES WOKE WITH a jolt. The dream – a phantasmagoria involving a giant ape and a hot air balloon – faded in an instant.
He looked around him, momentarily disorientated. In the next moment it all came back to him; he was aboard the Paris-London Express and heading for good old Blighty at last. But what had woken him?
He sat forward in his seat, gripping the armrests tightly, casting his senses about him to try to work out what it was his subconscious had spotted but that he was still missing.
“Your croissants, sir.”
The attendant was suddenly there again, placing a china plate bearing two twists of pastry, a folded linen napkin, silver-plated butter knife, miniature pat of butter and tiny pot of apricot jam on the table cloth in front of him.
“And your paper.”
A copy of yesterday’s Times was carefully inserted into the rack on the wall between the darkened windows of the carriage.
“Are we speeding up?” Ulysses asked.
“Through the tunnel, sir?” he snorted, as if to say, Don’t be ridiculous, you one-eyed idiot. Ulysses felt he was lucky the steward couldn’t call for the men in white coats for as long as they were still on board the train.
“There are very strict rules regarding how fast the train can travel through the Trans-Channel Tunnel, sir. You know, in case of derailments.”
“That’s what I thought,” Ulysses said, getting to his feet.
“Sir, there is nothing to worry about, I can assure you.” The attendant sounded almost agitated now. The other First Class passengers were starting to peer in their direction, curious to know what all the fuss was about. Sour expressions were accompanied by a succession of tuts and a bout of aggravated huffing.
“Don’t worry,” Ulysses said, picking up the butter knife and hiding the blade in the palm of his hand, a guilty looked in his uncovered eye. “I’ll sort it.”
Ignoring the attendant’s plaintive cries of “Would sir please return to his seat?” Ulysses headed for the front of the train.
IT DIDN’T TAKE him long to reach the forward guard’s van and, having left the passenger carriages behind, make his way through the service carriage to the train’s tender.
Opening the door from the guard’s van he entered the howling darkness of the Trans-Channel Tunnel itself. Above him, caged hazard lights hurtled past at terrific speed, while smoking oil lamps upon the train itself threw fleeting shadows and a haze of yellow light across the curving walls and roof.
Unlike most locomotives, the train’s tender was contained within its own carriage, allowing engine personnel to travel from the engine to other parts of the train with ease. Ulysses stepped from the guard’s van to the tender compartment, just as the train sped up with a powerful lurch.
Steadying himself with a hand against a rail, he crossed over, and then stopped to settle his nerves and catch his breath, realising that his heart was racing once more. Whatever tiredness he might have been feeling had been dispelled by his renewed sense of alarm.
What could be wrong? he wondered as he advanced along the corridor that ran the len
gth of the tender. But of course, deep down, he already knew the answer to that question.
But how could Leroux have survived the destruction of the balloon? He had been down on his hands and knees in the bottom of the basket. Besides, no one had followed the dandy down the taut anchor-line-cum-death-slide, of that he was certain. Wasn’t he?
There had to be another explanation. Perhaps the driver of the train had been taken ill – a heart attack or a stroke maybe – and fallen against the controls, causing the train to speed up.
Ulysses was almost at the engine now, ears straining to hear anything over the chuffing of the locomotive as it hurtled on its way under the seabed.
It was then that he stumbled upon the body. He could only see the corpse’s legs sticking out from a narrow alcove, where the driver and boilerman no doubt took their breaks. The rest of the body was covered by a bundle of what looked like parachute silk.
Of course! Ulysses cursed himself for an idiot. When he had been searching for a knife, or something suitable with which to cut the anchor line, the rucksacks he had only half been aware of must have been packed with a parachute each.
The silk showed signs of scorching, where debris from the explosion had fallen on it and burned through, but it had clearly worked well enough.
Leaving the body behind, he took a deep breath and stepped through the adjoining doorway from the tender box into the cabin of the hurtling engine.
The figure crouched over the locomotive’s controls snapped his head round. Ulysses gasped.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the cat,” Le Papillon managed before his speech was subsumed by a bout of savage coughing.
So, the anarchist had survived the balloon’s destruction after all. A part of Ulysses’ being thrilled at that piece of knowledge. He looked forward to relishing the look on the anarchist’s face when he realised that justice would be served, that Time’s Arrow had caught up with him at last and would make him pay properly for his heinous crimes.
Time's Arrow 3: White Noise (Pax Britannia (Time's Arrow)) Page 6
