“If I may,” Professor Early interrupted. “During Sergeant Hand’s narrative, I noted how his mind crossed dimensional tracks.”
“Illusions and hallucinations are not…”
“They were quite real, mate…er, sir,” Sergeant Hand said. “I did see history as it went elsewhere…”
“Elsewhere?” the Prime Minister’s man asked sharply.
“It’s hard to explain, sir,” Hand replied. “At first, and for some time after, I thought the same as you, just wonky illusions from the spice they shoved down my throat, but since I didn’t die like I was supposed to, I’ve had time to think about it all, to see they weren’t just dreams or such, but actual look-sees into other places where history went a bit different…”
“Or wildly different,” Professor Early interjected. “Those worlds where Rome never fell, or Britain never rose.”
“Preposterous!” Mr Fairlight spat.
“Or wildly different,” Hand acknowledged. “But the point is, they were not just visions but real places, existing right alongside us, even though we can’t see them normally. Somehow, the dream-spice breaks down barriers between worlds, between dimensions, and I think that is just what the Dark Gods want, to break down dimensions so they can escape from the dark place which they got banished to way back when.”
“On Mars they might still believe in fairy stories and bogies, but here on Earth…”
“Oh, yes, we have old stories, real blood-and-guts tales from the old times,” Sergeant Hand said, rising from his seat. He shook off Folkestone’s restraining hand. “And, yeah, Martian mums may fill their tykes’ heads with night-terrors, but that don’t make any of it less real!”
“Sergeant Hand, resume your seat,” the man ordered.
“The Dark Gods once held sway on Venus, too, and want to bring back the blood-times there as well,” Hand asserted. “We seen the Dark Gods at work among the Nagas, and many of the humanoid Venusians are working to bring back their old masters.”
“Sergeant Hand, please…”
“And I know the Dark Gods was here on Earth too!” Hand continued. “Maybe the only difference between Martians and humans is that we face our ‘bogies’ and don’t hide in collective and convenient amnesia.”
“Sit down now, or I will…”
“Sir, if I may have a moment at this juncture,” Professor Early said, shooting from his seat.
The red-faced official pressed his lips together, took a deep breath and nodded to Professor Early. He sat down. The Professor looked to the fuming Martian and smiled encouragingly. He too sat down. Professor Early remained standing, fists resting on the table on either side of the cloth-covered object.
“As unbelievable as Sergeant Hand’s narrative of alternate timelines may seem to the layman, it is fully supported by modern scientific thought,” the Professor said in a soft, calm, and measured voice. “Recently, Professor James Clerk Maxwell and his wife, the astronomer Agnes Mary Clerke Maxwell, presented a paper at the Royal Academy entitled The Multiplicity of Time. After Professor Maxwell’s very close brush with death in ’79, he became fascinated with the idea of different choices leading to different outcomes. If I am not mistaken, Sandhurst has been playing that game for many years, has it not?”
“Quite true,” affirmed one of the military men present, General Thorne of Military Intelligence. “Cadets are given opposite sides of a decisive battle and are instructed to figure out alternate results, sometimes as an exercise in pure logical argument, other times as…well, I suppose one might call it a game. But, hang it all, Professor! It’s one thing to argue that the Duke might have got trounced, but quite another to argue that he really did…somewhere in time.”
“By conducting electromagnetic experiments on the aether, and measuring the spectra of distant stars, Professor Maxwell and his wife were able to detect fluctuations in both the aether and the speed of light, which have been explained as alternate timelines shifting through the aether,” Early said. “Even the most intransigent members of the Royal Academy admitted the accuracy of the experiments and to the validity of the interpretation.”
Fairlight glanced about the table and noted a number of the scientists were nodding in agreement. He looked back to Sergeant Hand, who, from all the reports that had crossed his desk, was quite a level-headed chap. True, the little Martian had been through hell-and-some these past few days, but it was Fairlight’s experience that people never changed – fools were still fools no matter their birth or rank, and trustworthy men could always be trusted, no matter how extraordinary the circumstances.
“Perhaps I was a bit intemperate in my evaluation of the Sergeant’s account,” Fairlight said. “My apologies, Sergeant.”
Hand shot the official a look of surprise and gulped rather nervously. “I’m sorry, sir; I was out of line.”
“We’re here to discover the truth,” Fairlight replied. “If our egos cannot take a little bruising, we have no business here.”
“No, sir,” Hand said dubiously, then: “Yes, sir, I think.”
A general murmur of laughter marked the passing of a minor tempest. Fairlight looked back to the man from the British Museum.
“Even if we admit the existence of these ‘alternate timelines’ as real and that dream-spice can break down these barriers,” he said, “that does not establish the reality of these so-called Dark Gods.” He frowned. “Does it?”
“No, not specifically,” Professor Early admitted. “But the use of dream-spice…”
“And we do know that dream-spice does figure heavily in this conspiracy,” interjected Sir Edmund Henderson, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. “Ever since Chief Inspector Slaughter raided that East End dream-spice den in such a, shall we say, rather ‘spectacular’ fashion, we have closed them down faster than they can be established.”
“Chief Inspector Ethan Slaughter?” Folkestone asked.
“Yes, do you know him, Captain?” the Commissioner said.
“Quite well,” Folkestone replied. “We worked together some years back on the Martian Mind Leech Case.”
“Good bloke,” Hand commented.
“I did not know Chief Inspector Slaughter was mixed up in this mess,” Folkestone commented, “but I cannot say I am very much surprised. He has a knack for trouble.”
“Tell me, Commissioner,” Professor Early said, “has there been any word about Ethan?”
The Commissioner shook his head wearily.
“Has something happened?” Folkestone asked.
“On the same night a dream-spice den in London was destroyed, Chief Inspector Slaughter vanished,” Sir Edmund explained. “We might have missed connection but an Oriental named Qui Ah enquired after him. He is definitely not in London; we think now he must have been smuggled out through the East India Airship Terminus.”
“It was Ethan who brought this object to me at the British Museum,” Early said, gingerly placing his hand upon the shrouded object. “It is the reason I do not dismiss the Sergeant’s concerns.”
He whipped aside the covering.
“Crikey!” Sergeant Hand exclaimed, leaping from his chair so violently that it toppled.
Despite the noise, no one looked at Hand, and he took the opportunity to right his chair. Every eye was trained upon the ugly statue pried from the hands of a dead Lascar by breaking his fingers.
“Good God,” murmured Fairlight.
Early smiled, thinking of his missing friend. “As you might gather from Sergeant Hand’s reaction, this is indeed one of the Dark Gods of Old Mars.” He looked to Hand.
Hand gulped, nodded and could not speak.
“Analysis of the powder caught in the seams and cracks revealed it to be dream-spice,” Early continued.
Sir Edmund nodded. He had, of course, read the report, had seen the photographs, but he had still been unprepared for the actual sight of the loathsome statue, for the aura of evil it seemed to exude.
Fairlight mopped his suddenly sweat-drenc
hed face with a handkerchief. “It is suggestive, Professor Early, but it does not prove the reality of the Dark Gods.” He paused. “Would you mind putting the cloth back over it?”
Early nodded, and again enshrouded the object. Now that they could not see it, those attending the meeting could look away. But even though it was now hidden, it still seemed to cast a pall over the room. Hand looked about the room, at their haunted eyes, and he wondered not so much what each had seen, but what each had remembered.
You can try hard as you want to hide from the past, Hand thought, but the memory of a race runs deep.
“True, it does nothing to establish the reality of the Dark Gods as suggested by Captain Folkestone and Sergeant Hand,” Early admitted. “However, we have the reports from Mars and Venus, the reports of Captain Folkestone’s and Sergeant Hand’s experiences with those who considered themselves portals for the Dark Gods, and what Sergeant Hand was told by would-be assassins who claimed to work as agents of the Dark Gods.”
“Mere flummery,” Fairlight scoffed, though without any real tone of confidence in his voice. “Belief is not reality.”
“No, but faith can move planets,” Early replied.
The door suddenly opened and the woman from the outer office entered carrying a leather folder.
Frowning, Fairlight asked: “Yes, Miss Gladden?”
She placed the folder before him, bent low to whisper in his ear, then departed as silently as she had entered. Fairlight read what was in the folder with intense concentration, brow furrowed deeply.
He looked up. “We have covered quite a bit of territory today, and I dare say we could all use a break to digest what has been discussed. Please return to this conference room one hour hence. Report to Mr Carstairs in the outer office and he will conduct you to the canteen. Please treat all that has transpired here as strictly confidential.” He then added: “Professor Early, Captain Folkestone, Sergeant Hand, Lady Cynthia, Sir Edmund and General Thorne will please remain.”
After the others had departed, Fairlight motioned for those remaining to move closer to his position at the head of the table.
“Chief Inspector Slaughter has communicated with us,” the official said. “The missive in this folder…” He opened it and turned it about so they could all read it themselves. “…was submitted to the military commander at Gibraltar a few hours ago by a merchant ship captain, then relayed by aether-facsimile to the Home Office. As you can see from the accompanying letter, the writing has been verified as that of Chief Inspector Slaughter.”
“Dropped from an airship,” Folkestone mused, uttering a soft chuckle. “Why am I not surprised?”
“A bloody clever bloke,” Hand remarked.
“Indeed,” Fairlight agreed. He looked to General Thorne. “I want an SAS unit to start for Constantinople immediately to effect Slaughter’s rescue.”
“You could hide an army in Constantinople and never find it,” the General said grimly.
“Yes, but Section 6 agents from Station T are now searching for clues to his whereabouts, according to what Miss Gladden told me,” Fairlight said.
“If he is still alive,” Thorne remarked grimly.
“Here now!” Sir Edmund exclaimed indignantly.
“General, we will do all in our power to return the Chief Inspector to London,” Fairlight snapped. “If we do recover his body we will return that to London for a Christian burial, but in any case we shall never abandon a citizen of the Empire, not while it is in our power to help him. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, sir,” Thorne replied with equanimity.
“How soon can an SAS squad leave?” Fairlight asked.
“As soon as I get a message out.”
“Very good,” Fairlight said with satisfaction. “When Station T has pinpointed Slaughter’s location, your team will be notified by coded aether transmission.”
Thorne frowned.
“What is it?” Fairlight demanded.
“The Sublime Port, sir?”
“Hang the Sublime Port!”
Thorne grinned. “Yes, sir.”
“Sir, permission to accompany the rescue team,” Folkestone said. “And Sergeant Hand as well, sir.”
“I don’t know, Captain,” General Thorne said, shaking his head. “SAS units are very tight-knit, don’t appreciate outsiders.”
“Both the Sergeant and I have worked with SAS on several occasions,” Folkestone replied. “Besides, we both owe Slaughter a good turn. He would do the same for us.”
Thorne glanced at Fairlight, who nodded.
“Very well, Captain,” Thorne assented. “But don’t either of you get yourselves killed. I do not want to explain that to Admiral Barrington-Welles – he is quite the dragon, I understand” He suddenly coloured and swivelled his head toward Lady Cynthia. “I beg you pardon, ma’am!”
She smiled. “Think nothing of it, General. After all, I am the dragon’s daughter.”
Chapter 17
The military airship HMAS Nemesis swept swiftly across Europe, keeping to desolate areas and lonely mountain passes. Any observer gazing upward would have seen nothing and heard little, the craft enshrouded by clouds and its steam turbines whispering. Night had fallen some hours earlier, but the reduced visibility had done nothing to slow its passage toward Constantinople. Using a sensor system based upon aether-wave refraction, the stealthy airship avoided crags and spires the pilot would never see.
“Is the wee Martian all right, Captain?’ asked Commander Drummond. “He looks…well, a little green.”
“Oh, he’s fine,” Folkestone assured the SAS leader. He glanced at his friend sitting quietly by himself in the dim-lit cabin, eyes closed but not asleep. “What do you estimate our speed at?”
“In the neighbourhood of a hundred-fifty knots, maybe a hundred-sixty with a favourable tailwind,” the ginger Scotsman answered.
“Likely best you not mention it to Hand,” Folkestone said.
Drummond raised his eyebrows. “An aethership flies faster than that; even one o’ your Martian lift-ships can race a tad more, with the boilers open and repulsors full.”
“Yes,” Folkestone agreed, “but, then, they don’t usually fly like a slalom skier.”
As if to accentuate Folkestone’s words, the airship swerved sharply to port, dropped about a hundred feet, then shot upward while listing keenly to starboard before returning to level flight.
“I do see your point.” Drummond acknowledge with a smile.
“Besides, it’s been quite the hell of a week.”
Drummond nodded. He had had heard some of the rumours rife in the ranks, but he knew better than try to pump Folkestone for any information. They had worked together about five years back.
“I suppose Sergeant Hand is still a holy terror in a fight?” the Commander asked.
“I would say recent events have accentuated his aggression, not lessened it,” Folkestone answered. “Being out of sorts makes him cranky.”
“These rotters we’re going up against have the little fellow spoiling for a fight?”
“Quite.”
Drummond nodded. “Four hours out of Constantinople, but still no word on our target. If we don’t know exactly where, it will not amount to much as a rescue mission.”
“We’ll do the best we can,” Folkestone said.
“Aye, we always do,” Drummond agreed with a weary little smile. “But without information, our best efforts may still end us all crabbit in the cludgie.”
Folkestone watched the Commander walk over to where his officers were clustered about the aether-communicator. He knew miracles were something of a speciality for the officers and men of Special Airship Services, but like any military unit, covert or not, they were only as good as their information. He walked over and sat next to Sergeant Hand.
“Holding up, Hand?”
“Yes, sir,” Hand replied, not opening his eyes. “Just resting. Any word yet on where in Constantinople Slaughter is being held?
”
Folkestone shook his head, then realised Hand’s eyes were still closed. “Nothing yet.”
“The Solar System is getting too small,” Hand suddenly said, “and everyone is in too much of a bloody hurry. People dash and canter like greyhounds after ruddy rabbits, and if they do catch what they think they want it turns out to be rubbish.”
“Non omne quod nitet aurum est.”
Hand’s eyes fluttered open. “Sir?”
“All that glitters is not gold,” Folkestone explained.
“Ain’t that the bloody truth!” Hand muttered.
“She’s still in your dreams, I take it?”
“She will always be in my dreams, sir.”
“My only advice, Sergeant – never let go.”
“Aye, sir,” Hand sighed.
“Captain Folkestone!” Drummond called from across the cabin. “You and Sergeant Hand, join us please. We have it!”
For the next few hours, Folkestone, Hand and the SAS commandos made their plans, pouring over detailed maps, charts and aerial photographs of the ancient capital, as well as the drawings and plans that had been forwarded to them as encrypted aether-facsimiles by agents of Station T.
“The place where Chief Inspector Slaughter is being held is known locally as the House of Wands,” Commander Drummond told his assembled men, pointing out the structure on the maps and photos mounted on the bulkhead. “It is about a thousand years old, and according to the intelligence johnnies it has more ways in and out, not to mention damned hidey-holes, than a wheel of Swiss cheese.”
“More than we can cover efficiently from its looks, sir,” a Lieutenant Burke pointed out.
“Station T has the structure under covert surveillance,” the Commander said. “Also, a detachment of Royal Marines from HMS Thunder Child has been emplaced under cover of darkness. Once we go in, their role is to make sure no one gets out.”
The assembled nodded their understanding.
“Our primary mission is, then, get inside, find Slaughter, and get out,” Drummond continued. “Our secondary task, apprehend and detain everyone, so no deaths unless unavoidable – the dead do not answer questions.”
Shadows Against the Empire (Folkestone & Hand Interplanetary Steampunk Adventures Book 1) Page 21
