No stars or coursing comets, no dimly glowing eddies in the aether, no sweeping bands of intergalactic gases, and no planets moving along the chartered paths ordained by the hand of Providence.
And certainly no Red bloody Eye! Sergeant Felix Hand thought as he watched the airship vanish in the direction of Port Victoria.
He turned from that discouraging vista to an even more discouraging one – the great upland jungle that covered most of the blasted surface of the planet, dense and accessible only by airship or via the complex riverine network. Dotting that jungle in the various areas of national influence were lonely plantations, isolated outposts of progress and civilisation where men and women harvested and processed the various Venusian plants and animals so much in demand on the other planets.
Except the Chinese, of course, who raised rice.
A narrow path led from the clearing where the airship had deposited them. The landing pad itself was naught but a concrete foundation dug into the floor of the jungle, a wide oval not easily annexed by the constantly creeping vegetation; its efforts to do so by encroachment dictated that a work party armed with machetes and burners fight back on at least a weekly basis, but it had obviously been some time since workers had attended to this chore. Three long warehouses fronted the landing area, now fast in the grip of the jungle, and there was no activity at all around them. Hand considered the wall of overgrown vegetation with distaste, and yearned once more for the cool and aesthetically beautiful wastelands of Mars. The airship had hovered over the concrete pad because of the encroachment, fighting contrary winds, while the two men clambered down a Jacobs ladder.
No one met them at the staging area, which Hand took as not being a good sign. Folkestone vanished among the darkness of the overgrown pathway, and after a moment Hand followed, his fingers never very far from the weapons at his side.
The path led gently upward. Hand caught up with the Captain, and though he did not detect any fear in the human's demeanour, he was impressed by a wariness equal to his own. The pathway, which should have been wide enough to accommodate the passage of several drays, was now so set upon by the seething jungle that there was barely a foot of clearance at either shoulder.
There was still no sign of habitation, no sounds other than the whispering jungle and their own muted footfalls.
"Captain, I don't think we..."
"Eyes wide open, Sergeant," he murmured.
Coal to Newcastle, Sergeant Hand thought, misapplying yet another human aphorism that had caught his fancy.
A sound on the path ahead beyond a gentle bend made Sergeant Hand's sidearm find its way to his grasp.
A Naga stood before them as they came around the curve. The lean reptilian regarded the visitors with glassy obsidian eyes that betrayed nothing of emotion or intent.
Hand brought his weapon up, but Folkestone laid a restraining hand on him.
"The medallion, Sergeant."
In the verdant light, Hand saw that the gaudily patterned creature wore about its serpentine neck a glittering medallion on a leather thong. He returned his pistol to its holster, but did not take his palm from the butt.
"Please to follow," the Naga hissed. "To follow please."
The creature did not wait for answer or acknowledgement, but turned and scarpered.
“Bloody hell!” Hand swore.
The two men followed, forced to a brisk pace. Presently the path opened into a vast lawn better maintained than either the staging area or connecting roadway. In its centre was a sprawling mansion. Two men emerged to greet them, one sight and wearing a white suit; the other man, dressed darkly, was heavily bearded and easily seven feet tall, not counting the turban.
"Thank you so much for coming, gentlemen," said the man in white. "I am Charles Mallory. This is my servant and overseer Rhandu." He turned to the Naga and said: "Thank you, Ibliss, you may return to your duties."
"Bloody clever, are they?" Hand murmured, gazing after the departing Venusian with obvious wariness and distrust.
"Their 'cleverness,' as you term it would probably surprise you, Sergeant," Mallory said. "The operation and maintenance of this plantation would not be possible without them."
Hand looked about. "Looks like they been slacking off a bit, don't it?"
Folkestone started to admonish Hand.
"No, it's quite all right, Captain Folkestone," Mallory assured him. "My remaining workers are not 'slacking,' but we are trying to do with but a quarter of our regular workforce, so priorities have been set. That staffing problem, as well as violence from rogues, is why I asked for outside intervention. Please come inside. We will be able to discuss the matter better over tea."
Tea! Again! Sergeant Hand hid his distaste. Although he had adopted as his own all almost things British, the custom of high tea was not one of them. Try as he might, he could not get used to the dusky, slightly acidic taste of a cuppa brew. Like all military men, he preferred a single malt, but like all military men he took what he got. And now it was tea.
As they tuned toward the mansion, a company of a half-dozen Nagas broke from the thick jungle wall and rushed toward the four men. The two soldiers unholstered their weapons and Rhandu unlimbered a neural whip, stepping in front of his master.
"Stop!" Mallory yelled, stepping from behind his servant and confronting the reptilian marauders. "What do you want?"
The band of creatures stopped about a dozen paces away, spitting and hissing like a pit of disturbed vipers. Their eyes flashed, their necks writhed angrily. They wore headdresses and bands made from the bright feathers of jungle birds and iridescent skins. Their own patterned hides were decorated with swaths and daubs of crimson in dizzying patterns. They all carried spears and stone knives. None wore medallions.
"What do you want?" Mallory demanded again, taking a step toward them, a sharper tone in his voice.
"Blasphemers!" screamed the lead Naga, his voice like an exploding steam boiler. "Stay and die! The Red Eye will burn you! All power to the Speaker of the Dark! Your blood..."
The tirade was cut short when Rhandu rushed forward, swinging his neural whip to and fro like an attacking adder. The followers broke immediately, but their leader hesitated long enough to get a light taste of the lash across his hide. He convulsed and fled after the others, and Rhandu chased them until they vanished into the wall of the jungle. The Sikh stared at the faceless jungle for a long moment, then returned to the others.
"Thank you Rhandu, but you know how I feel about that whip of yours," Mallory said crossly.
"A graze, sahib, a slight one, and only to the leader, not to his sheep," Rhandu said mildly.
"Well," said Mallory, glancing toward the two men who still held their service revolvers at the ready, "I suppose that's better than shooting the poor beggars dead."
Folkestone and Hand holstered their weapons, reluctantly.
"Come, gentlemen, explanations are in order," Mallory said, "but they at least may be much easier made now that you have seen something of what I am up against."
"I shall return to my rounds, Master."
Tea awaited them in a spacious and airy drawing room, served by a slender and quite beautiful Indian girl, from whom Sergeant Hand did not let his gaze wander. From time to time as she performed her duties she shyly glanced at the small Martian. Hand sighed when she departed, and he did not care who heard.
"Ulara is quite beautiful, is she not?" Mallory commented.
"Yes, sir, quite a nice twist…I mean, a lovely girl," Hand replied, ignoring Folkestone's narrowed gaze.
"Indeed," Mallory agreed. "I should also mention she is Rhandu's daughter."
Hand gazed wistfully after the girl and recalled how deftly the overseer handled that neural whip of his.
"Now to business, gentlemen," Mallory announced.
As long afternoon of Venus edged into a hazy purple twilight, Charles Mallory related the sequence of events that led to his request for assistance from and old friend and their long journey
from Mars through the swirling aether. The start of the problem was difficult to pinpoint, but it was no more than half a Terran year ago that the first of the workers began disappearing. At first nothing was made of it, as the numbers were small and it was not unusual for a Naga to suddenly decide he no longer wanted plantation work.
“Not his cup of tea, so to speak,” Hand quipped.
Folkestone frowned at his subordinate.
“Yes, you could say that,” Mallory admitted, “though I would not.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Hand, chastised.
“The odd part is that they abandoned all their belongings, left everything in their barracks,” Mallory continued. “Pay is why they come to plantations in the British Sector. As you know, gentlemen, we have not used impressed labour for quite a number of years, which is why, in general, we attract better, more productive workers, so the abandonment of wages and possessions was quite troubling.”
“But a boon to their fellows?” Folkestone ventured. “More work for others?”
“Indeed, and also a certain amount of avarice involved, I discovered later” Mallory said. “That is why we at first did not realise it was a developing trend. As I mentioned, a certain amount of desertion is expected, but we did not know the details so attached no importance. Only when the numbers became too prolific to ignore did we learn that the details.”
“What about the Nagas who’ve stayed?” Folkestone asked. “What have you learned from them?”
“Not a great deal,” Mallory admitted. “They claim to know nothing about the reasons behind the desertions, and said nothing about the circumstances because they were divvying up the spoils. They did say something very peculiar, however, something which I have been unable to fathom, and which they could not explain despite protracted questioning.”
“And what is that, Mr Mallory?”
“They said those who left dreamed strange dreams.”
“But they could not explain it?”
“No, Captain,” Mallory replied. “Those who remained claim they do not dream, and are glad of it.”
“What about that band of Nagas we encountered?” Hand asked. “Are they some of your runaways?”
“There is no telling,” Mallory said. “They can see differences amongst themselves because of hide patterns and things we humans could never understand, but I fear they all really do look all alike to me. Even Rhandu, who spends much more time among them that myself, can only identify individuals because of the medallions we have them wear…it functions much like a head-count among human workers when one face is much like another.”
“What about Ibliss?” Folkestone asked.
Mallory smiled. “Odd you should ask about that one, Captain. He is probably the only one of his race I could recognise.”
“His patterns?”
“Nothing so complicated.” Mallory smiled self-consciously. “He carries a scar across his left arm that I gave him as a boy. It was nothing intentional, you understand, just the result of youthful exuberance and an unfamiliarity with firearms.”
“You trust him, then?”
“As much as I trust Rhandu,” Mallory asserted. “He practically raised me. Why do you ask?”
“I want to question him about the rise of an old cult,” Folkestone explained. “In the capital we were briefed about it.”
“That rubbish about the Speaker of the Dark and the Red Eye?” Mallory asked.
“Yes, that’s it.”
“I doubt it’s more than just some native ju-ju,” Mallory said.
“Still, we’d like to interview him.”
“You can talk to Ibliss if you want,” Mallory said, “but I doubt it will do any good. He is a domestic with virtually no contact with the field workers, and he’s been around humans so long he’s practically on of us.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Hand murmured, thinking of his own situation.
“Be that as it may, Mr Mallory, I think an interview with Ibliss may be helpful,” Folkestone persisted.
Mallory shrugged. “As you wish. I’ll have Rhandu show you to your quarters, then make arrangements.”
Folkestone and Hand met the Naga servant in a room off the mansion’s kitchen. Although Folkestone’s only contact with the reptilian aborigines had been in combat during the uprisings, he could tell Ibliss was nervous. Some emotions are common to all beings, no matter the species, Folkestone thought.
“Thank you for speaking with us, Ibliss,” Folkestone said.
“The Master tell Ibliss to answer your questions,” the Naga said, “so Ibliss answers…what he can.”
“You know about the workers who had deserted?”
“Do not mix with workers,” Ibliss replied. “House staff.”
“Too good for them, are you?” Sergeant Hand asked.
“Swamp tribes, most of them, nothing in common.”
“But you’re all Nagas,” Hand persisted.
“Hill and swamp do not meet.”
“But you know of the desertions?” Folkestone continued.
“I have heard…things.”
“Have you heard of the dreams they dream?” Folkestone asked. “The strange dreams they dream?”
“No.”
“Tell us about the Red Eye,” Folkestone said.
“No.”
“The Speaker of the Dark?”
“No.”
“You’re refusing to co-operate?”
“Ibliss knows nothing of swamp dweller dreams or why they abandon all they have here,” the Naga replied. “The other that you ask is…it is vrandst.”
“Is what?” Hand demanded.
“It is, how you say…not talked about…”
“Taboo?”
“Taboo,” the Naga said. “They are old stories told to scare yearlings in their dens, but not for outsiders.”
“Tell me, Ibliss,” Folkestone said, “are they stories of blood and fire, of darkness and death? Are they about the beings who come from Outside, from the spaces between worlds to feast upon sacrifices? Are they about Dark Gods?”
Ibliss surged back, as if suddenly confronted with a deadly enemy. He did not stop until his back was against the wall. His obsidian eyes were even wider than usual, his mouth was open, his forked tongue was vibrating, his limbs were trembling, and his tail was vibrating like that of a rattlesnake before an attack. Sergeant Hand started to draw his sidearm, but Folkestone motioned for him to hold fast.
“Calm down, fellow!” Folkestone instructed.
“Yeah, no one is going to hurt you,” Hand said.
Ibliss did not react immediately to the command, which was surprising after a lifetime spent around humans, responding to their every order, catering to every wish. Eventually, conditioning and training overtook his primal urges, just as the civilised man usually triumphs over the will of the stone-age savage who lurks still in the hearts of men.
“Tell me, Ibliss,” Folkestone pressed. “Am I right? Are those the dreams that call in the night, the dreams that the missing Nagas have answered?”
Ibliss did not speak, but nodded. “But, how…”
“You don’t really want me to answer, do you? To tell you how an outworlder knows of the black past?”
“Forgive Ibliss, sir,” the Naga finally hissed. “There are things we do not talk about, even among ourselves. It is too old, too dark, too terrible.”
“But you have stories?” Hand suggested, thinking of the old cradle tales that used to scare him silly as a child. “Storytellers?”
“No, sir.” After a long moment, Ibliss added. “We have our memories. We all have memories.”
“Memories?”
“But we bury them.”
“Tell us, Ibliss,” Folkestone said, “the workers who vanish, where do they go?”
Ibliss looked about, as if somehow prying eyes could see into this closed room, then whispered, “Deep…deep into the jungle…answering the old song we prayed would be forever silent…I too have heard its calling,
but I will not go.”
“Too strong willed?” Folkestone asked.
“Too…afraid.”
Although Ibliss had through long association with humans separated himself from his own kind, he could not abandon the very essence of what made him a son of Venus. He might be accepted by humans, might even take on some human mannerisms, just as he spoke the language, but there would always be an insurmountable barrier between his kind and humanity, the irreconcilable differences between the reptilian and mammalian minds.
“There is a very ancient memory within us, maybe oldest memory of all,” Ibliss said, speaking with great difficulty. “We hide it because it is much too terrible to recall. No matter how much we hide, it is always there. These last several months…the dreams come to us…uncovering the old memories long buried…many have answered…even I want to rise to the call…but too much fear.”
Then the old fellow stopped, stared at the floor, and they knew nothing more would be forthcoming.
“What do you make of it, Sergeant?” Folkestone asked when they were away from the mansion, strolling the grounds. “Old Daraph-Kor responds to some sort of ancient call and goes off his nut, vanishing who knows where, and…”
“And the same thing happens on Venus,” Sergeant Hand finished. “Think there could be a connection of some sort.”
“I don’t see how there could be,” Folkestone answered, shaking his head. “But, at the same time, I don’t see how there could not be, if you know what I mean.”
“Well, sir, it’s as difficult to see as how there can be any connection between Mars and Venus now anymore than in the ancient past. Even the old Martian legends, back from the times of the Dark Gods, don’t say much about Venus, though the ancients knew of its existence, just as they did Earth’s. We have stories about Earth in our tales, but not Venus, and it’s ruddy hard to imagine any link between me and the likes of that Ibliss. I mean, sir, I’m sure he’s a fine old lizard, and Mr Mallory seems to think the world of him, but all that talk about actually remembering the past…well, that’s rubbish isn’t it?”
Shadows Against the Empire (Folkestone & Hand Interplanetary Steampunk Adventures Book 1) Page 9
