The Ghost Rebellion

by Pip Ballantine, Tee Morris

  “Mechamen designs?” Wellington brought the file closer to his face. “Featherstone had passed these on to Southerby before the Jubilee. Jekyll was playing both sides?”

  “As if he didn’t trust the stability of the Maestro.” Eliza then turned back to O’Neil. “When did you say Featherstone proposed æthergate technology to you all?”

  “Four months ago. I remember Southerby was quite excited over it, but as I said before, Featherstone pulled the project a month later. Southerby was furious.”

  “And this Ghost Rebellion you mentioned to us—when did they first start to appear?”

  O’Neil shrugged. “I would say two months ago.”

  Vania gasped, catching everyone’s attention. “Jekyll’s found a new proving ground.”

  Wellington gently tapped Eliza’s shoulder. “We should look at that personal diary of Featherstone’s again. If this hunch of yours is correct, Featherstone was coming to India to aid Jekyll and this Ghost Rebellion.”

  “Give us the room,” Maulik said, his mechanised voice sounding even and still as a lake in the early morning.

  O’Neil and Vania both stepped out without question. The lieutenant closed the doors behind him as Maulik wheeled himself over to the corner of the office that had been reserved for more casual talks. There was a fine, dark wood cigar box and a crystal decanter on a small, round table here. The intimate setting was flanked by three high back, plush chairs.

  “Would you mind?” Maulik asked, waving his hand at one of the chairs.

  Wellington moved one aside as the Director rolled into its vacancy. Eliza took one of the remaining seats and waited for Wellington to join her.

  “That was impressive,” Eliza said to Maulik. “For someone hesitant in undertaking a leadership role, you know when to make your standing clear.”

  “I never said I was hesitant, my dear Eliza,” Maulik replied. “I may not like being in charge, but I have never been hesitant. At least, until now.” He patted his right hand with his left, and gave a slight nod before looking back up at the two of them. “I know that currently, you both are on the hunt for Jekyll, and I know better than anyone the high priority the Ministry places on his capture. That being said, I need your help.”

  “Help?” Wellington said. “Are you asking us to abandon the chase for Jekyll and assist you in dealing with this Ghost Rebellion?”

  “Maulik,” Eliza said, leaning in closer, “it is obvious there is some sort of connection here…”

  “Yes, we had suspected that our Royal Engineer, under the influence of Doctor Jekyll, is supplying experimental technology into the hands of rebels. Rebels that, according to O’Neil, were reported to be killed in action. Now currently, your manhunt and my peculiar occurrence are intertwined. My concern is what happens when they are not.

  “Since the Jubilee, the Ministry has been working to get back on their feet. Even with these many months, while I am comfortable in my position, my staff are still inexperienced. I need agents with undeniable talent. I need agents with honed instincts. I need agents with a certain je ne se quoi. I need—”

  “What you really need are agents who can tell their arse from their elbow,” Eliza blurted out.

  Wellington moaned something along the lines of “With all the grace and eloquence of a ballerina…” while Maulik chuckled.

  “You know what I need, Eliza. Can I count on the both of you?”

  Eliza locked her gaze with Wellington’s. They both wanted Jekyll. As Maulik said, Jekyll was a top priority—however Featherstone and Jekyll together had placed India in a delicate position. The Ghost Rebellion, whomever they were, and the death of Southerby could bring down upon the country and its people the wrath of the British Empire.

  Wellington took Eliza’s hand, squeezed it tightly, and then looked to Maulik. “What can we do?”

  “Excellent,” Maulik said, reaching into his coat pocket. “A bit of a relief as it will be easier to keep an eye on you.”

  Eliza inclined her head to one side. “Come again?”

  Maulik unfurled the paper he had just drawn from his pocket. “Received this æthermissive from headquarters. One of our operatives, Agent Case, reported seeing the two of you in Bruges. Two days ago.” He looked up. “I just need to confirm—you’re not in Belgium presently, are you?”

  Interlude

  Wherein the Doctor Pays a House Call

  “We have assembled and wait upon you.”

  Nahush Kari’s eyes flicked open. The separatist movement he had started—born of frustration and rage—had seen a light of hope in the most unexpected of benefactors. Now, after their failed attack against the invaders, he was trapped, betrayed, and humiliated.

  A trickle of sweat ran down his face, and it was not the heat in the close quarters of the building that caused it. Wiping it off with the back of his hand, he took a deep breath and pulled himself up to his feet. They were all seated in the top floor of a two-storey building, deep in Bombay, but they might as well have been in a British prison. He joined his fellow freedom fighters and saw more than disappointment in their slumped postures. He saw the edges of despair. Balaji who was the oldest among them had, as a younger man, fought in the rebellion of ‘58. Yet now he sat, hands over his eyes, bent and silent. He was broken.

  A gentle breeze blew through the small windows and offered relief from the heat. He had not come this far to fail.

  The series of houses they occupied in the Shor Bazaar were all interconnected by underground tunnels, and kept under careful watch. This was their haven, their protected place. Even with those British that dared to venture into the market for something exotic to take home, this market remained India. That, and hiding right under their noses was not only amusing, it just made sense. Let the English roam the Western Ghats, getting wet and bitten by insects. They would not find them in the mountains. They would never think to look so close.

  Their location within Bombay was much better for their vaunted æthergate technology to work—and it had done so magnificently, for their recruitment needs and the raids that followed. Without question, Nahush Kari thought as he looked at those in his ranks, the æthergate had been a success. They not only increased their numbers, but he had recruited the finest soldiers. Freedom fighters like Phani Talwar. He knew, and his men knew, they finally possessed an advantage over the English.

  Then came the disaster at Fort St Paul.

  Not one of the assembled leaders of the rebellion could meet his eyes. They remained silent as the chatter of the bazaar flittered in from outside their windows.

  At the edge of the assembled was Makeala, the sole woman, and one of the movement’s greatest supporters. Her dark eyes met his in an unflinching, penetrating gaze. She showed none of the fear and anger in the others, remaining the calm centre of the group. She was neither disappointed nor in despair. She was angry.

  Oddly, Nahush found her anger a small relief.

  His officers had been wary of Featherstone’s generous offer. The British engineer had found Nahush in the monsoon season and offered them schematics of a device that seemed to be the answer to their problems. The Imperial army was a beast with many tentacles, and though the separatists could strike at the limbs, they could never get close enough to attack the head. Featherstone’s device had offered the chance to strike them in the eye, a definite step forward in Nahush’s plan for India.

  Nahush had shaken the white man’s hand. Nahush had been the first through the æthergate. Nahush believed, as everyone before him had believed, that Featherstone had been their unexpected salvation. Now looking at the others seated around him, he could sense that they were remembering that too, rolling it over in their minds. Soon enough one of them would speak the words.

  “The æthergate has failed us, brothers and sisters.” He kept his voice strong, trying to remind them he was still their leader. Nahush held the eyes of his council, trying to make them see he would not turn away from the responsibility. Honesty, he knew to be an un
shakeable foundation to build upon.

  “We were prepared,” Makeala said softly. Nahush was eternally grateful this cursed science had not touched her. Her dark eyes gleamed with pride. “The gate worked perfectly in the beginning. We only had the plans, but you made it work.”

  “Your pact with that English bastard has damned us all,” Shardool said, breaking the silence of the other men. His friend of many decades stood, openly challenging Nahush with fire blazing in his eyes. “We came here to fight and die by your side if necessary, but instead you condemned us all.”

  “Shardool,” Nahush began, “we were all led to believe in the æthergate. It cost us good men.”

  “There is nothing for our mothers to even burn and cast into the Ganges!”

  “We all feel the loss. I will not presume to know the feeling of watching your brother disappear at the portal as he did.”

  “He was alive,” his friend continued, thrusting his finger towards Nahush, “and this science you trusted, you made us believe in, killed him.”

  Makeala rose to her feet, her sari slipping from her sleek, dark hair while she folded her hands in front of her. “We have struck fear into the hearts of the occupiers,” she countered. “They have seen what we are willing to sacrifice to rid our Mother India of them, and they too are still licking their wounds.”

  Some of the men frowned at this woman raising her voice in such a manner, but many of the younger ones in the room stared at Makeala entranced.

  “Sacrifice for a result is one thing,” Nahush said, gesturing as kindly as he could for Makeala to sit. She gave him a glare but did so, folding her sari around her and not meeting the gaze of any of the men. “My cousin is wrong, I fear. We did not destroy the fort as we intended, and we lost far too many of Mother India’s sons today.”

  “But the English lost their leader,” she stated.

  The room fell silent as they considered her words. This band of passionate Indians under his rule needed to strike at a target that would cripple the British. Nahush recognised their hunger all too well. Under the Imperial yoke, the resources of their home continued to be syphoned off to the self-professed Empress of India. They possessed more wealth than the other territories of the Empire, and yet Indians were denied even the right to vote on those that ruled them. Their culture was decried as savage at every turn, their children taught European ways. The Empire had promised much and delivered very little. He needed to keep this resentment stoked as the raging fire he knew it to be.

  Perhaps on this raid, they had reached for too much.

  “Yes, we did take a life. An important one. An influential one.” Nahush looked to each of them, finding a source of pride from what their raid had accomplished. “If we still believe the æthergate as a blessing, then yes, I would rejoice. However, I fear we killed one cobra only to have awakened the nest.”

  Before he could continue, a commotion suddenly erupted below them. The walls of their building echoed with shouts. They leapt to their feet, drawing various edged weapons. Even his old friend Shardool held a modified Bulldog at the ready. A few muffled yelps followed by sharp rings of metal against metal, the sickening sound of ripping viscera, and then...

  Scuff. Scuff. Scuff. Someone was coming up the stairs…

  “Do not fire that weapon,” Nahush whispered tersely. His friend’s gaze was wild, but he held a finger to him. “If you do, you will reveal our secret with an impulse, and everything ends today.”

  The footsteps seemed to take their time in reaching them. With his gaze locked on the doorway, Nahush expected to see a troop of British soldiers charge into the room to kill them all. How the British could infiltrate this deep into the bazaar without some warning was a mystery.

  So when a tall, broad shouldered man appeared on that spot instead, Nahush was stunned for a moment. The three clicks and a compressor priming took his gaze back to Shardool. He held up his hand, warning his friend once more what was at stake. When Shardool returned the hammer back to a safe position, Nahush looked back to the newcomer.

  Something was not right with this Englishman standing in the threshold. As Nahush observed him, he appeared to shrink somehow. His massive shoulders, impossible on a living man, adjusted down to diminutive proportions. He was white, not burnt by the sun or even tanned, but pale. It was as if he had not seen sun in months. Nahush could see the veins running under his skin and the blood throbbing noticeably. Such a sight would have meant he should have been breathing hard, exerting himself in some fashion. Instead, he appeared calm and collected. He wore a well cut, if slightly rumpled, beige linen suit, which now looked far too large for him.

  Their gazes locked, and a shudder of horror ran through Nahush.

  Once, as a young boy, he had stumbled across a tiger eating from a carcass. The predator had looked at him with these same eyes. Empty, black and pitiless. Suddenly in that moment Nahush realised how little he mattered in the greater scheme of things.

  That tiger had at least been beautiful. This man was anything but. For an instant he reconsidered calling for gunfire.

  Finally, Nahush asked, his own English sounding strange in this room, “How did you get in here?”

  “Well, your building has this amazing innovation called ‘the front door’ and I am an advocate for innovation, so I used that,” he said, his voice changing with each word, going from feral to civilised along the way. “I suppose you are wondering about your men. I wish I could say I left them unharmed, but...well, that would be a lie.”

  In the corner of his eye, Nahush saw Shardool lift the gun once more. Before anyone could move or speak, the man had crossed the room and gripped his friend’s arm in a strange lock unlike any martial art Nahush was familiar with. The gun dropped out of Shardool’s hand, and his friend was tossed into the far wall as if he weighed nothing.

  The stranger took a breath, and the veins Nahush saw were darker. He now filled his suit properly, but then he began to shrink again. His smile was a nasty baring of teeth that made Nahush think of white, bleached bones in the desert. The newcomer’s eyes raked over the gathering of leaders, seemingly weighing and measuring each of them. His eyes flickered over Makeala the longest, but he said nothing as he turned back to Nahush. What kind of demon was this man?

  “I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t introduce myself.” The man gave a little bow. “Doctor Henry Jekyll, at your service.”

  Nahush had received the best education an Indian boy could expect—a British one. This strange doctor had the kind of polished accent only gained in Oxford or Cambridge. It grated on Nahush’s nerves, since he had long come to associate it with oppression and intolerance. He had received many beatings as an Indian in the private schools of England. The sting of blows on his back had been accompanied by taunts with this very accent. When he spent his time studying in Oxford, there had been less beatings, but just as many cruel words flung his way. Nahush’s father had thought he was doing right by his son, but most of what he had learned in Britain was hatred.

  “And from that look in your eye, I can see you have deduced I am English.” The doctor took off his flat cap, and held his arms outward in a shrug. “Then again I would have thought my skin colour or fashion choices would have been your first clue.”

  One nod and Jekyll would be made quick work of, but how did he find them? “Featherstone,” Nahush guessed. “You are an associate of his.”

  Jekyll’s eyes lit up with delight, but the levity did nothing to put Nahush at ease. “Yes, Hieronymus told me all about you, Nahush Kari. So good to finally meet the man behind the movement.”

  Now Makeala stepped forward, her own blade raising upward, but Nahush slipped ahead of her, shaking his head slightly. Pushing back his instinct to give the order to kill this man, Nahush faced him. “You are taking quite a risk coming here.”

  “Really?” Jekyll let out an exasperated sigh. “Just as you did with that rather ugly scene at Fort St Paul?”

  Whatever fear inhibited him vanished
in that moment. Nahush drew his own knife and was on him, blade to his throat before anyone could move. “I am sick of white men offering solutions and then letting us do the dying. From what I was told, we were nothing but test subjects for your science experiments.”

  Jekyll glanced down at the edge of the knife, but his breathing remained even. Nahush might as well have been holding a spoon to his flesh. “I assume you have questions about your æthergate. I have answers for you.”

  Nahush trembled in that moment, wondering if it would be wiser to slit the doctor’s throat, or if that would result in something even more horrific happening. He didn’t like being this close to the man. Where Jekyll’s skin was in contact with his, Nahush could feel it puckering, quivering with strange spasms. He stepped back, glanced over to his soldiers, all of them waiting for a word, a command.

  “If your answers do not satisfy me,” Nahush warned, “you will disappear from this mortal plane. Completely.”

  “It may surprise you how resilient I am, but certainly, yes, have your way with me,”—his eyes shot to Nahush with the kind of chill calm reminiscent of that tiger’s gaze—”after you listen to what I have to say.”

  “I will give you five minutes.”

  “Five minutes? Quite a bit can happen in five minutes. First, a goodwill gesture.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, brown bottle. He rattled its contents and then tossed it to Makeala. “That’s for your man against the wall, for any aches he may encounter. Now, to business…” He adjusted his cravat before taking a more central point of the room. “Featherstone was a patient of mine. I had a bit of influence over him, and when I heard that he was pawning off shoddy æthergate technology to you, I made it my priority to find you and apologise on his behalf. Reckless behaviour that I cannot abide by.”

  “Featherstone knew this science was dangerous?” Jagish asked from Nahush’s left. The faint creak of leather meant Jagish’s grip must have been quite firm around his kukri.