“Yes, I am sad to say,” Jekyll said. “He spun a yarn, if I am to understand correctly, about the occupation of India being too costly and therefore he wanted to help you in this quaint rebellion of yours.” He nodded. “Yes, total poppycock. At great risk to my own life, I regret to inform you that you lot were test subjects in Featherstone’s grand experiment.”
Jagish and Omar took a step towards him, but Nahush held them back with a look. “And I am to believe you because…?”
“If you check with your spies in Bombay, particularly the contact that introduced you to Featherstone, you’ll find I’m a wanted man, and rather a nasty piece of work—at least according to the British. Two peas in a pod, we are.” Jekyll strolled over to the writing desk in the far corner and slid out its chair for himself. He casually glanced at the collection of books and nodded in appreciation. “Oh yes, we do share a few things in common.”
“We are nothing alike,” Nahush seethed.
“We both want something, something each other has.” Jekyll took a seat and then checked his pocket watch. “Please, another five minutes?”
Makeala touched Nahush on the shoulder, and whispered into his ear, “The enemy of our enemy could be useful.”
Nahush cast a glance over his leaders, and then took the seat across from Jekyll while they sat once more on the floor. However, this time with their weapons across their respective laps.
“The æthergates are based on rather flimsy trials from an incident involving the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences,” Jekyll stated, producing from the inside pocket of his coat a small notebook, a larger, folded parchment seeming to serve as its bookmark. “Featherstone believed he could control the side effects, but needed test subjects. Initially, it was to be the men of St Paul’s, but on discovering one of your spies, he took it upon himself to kill two birds with a rather ambitious stone.”
Nahush frowned and only just restrained the urge to poke the man in the shoulder. “What exactly do you know?”
“Tell me, Mr Kari,” Jekyll began, considering him in a way that made him feel exactly like a piece of meat, “how many missions have you conducted using the gates?”
“Four,” he replied. “Recruitment operations.”
Jekyll pulled out a pair of spectacles from his jacket pocket, put them on, opened the book at the point where the parchment marked, and examined Nahush even more closely. “And I take it you did not accompany your brave soldiers on their daring raids?”
“Are you implying Nahush is a coward?” Omar asked.
“On the contrary,” Jekyll said, “it is foolhardy for great leaders to charge into battle, lest they fall themselves. Who then will lead in their stead? Southerby learned that, didn’t he?” His eyes narrowed on Omar, and Nahush watched his captain grow ashen as Jekyll gave the man his undivided attention. “You strike me as a man of action. How many times have you stepped through the æthergate?”
Omar swallowed. “Six.”
The doctor didn’t even blink. His eyes grew dark and dangerous behind his glasses, and a strange blue tint radiated over his face, yet his voice was still calm. “When was the last time you ate?”
Omar hesitated. “I…I can’t…”
“Before St Paul, there was the attack on the Bangalore Club, if memory serves?”
“That was three weeks ago.”
“And that was the last time you enjoyed a meal of any description. Probably the last time you felt thirsty as well.” Jekyll glanced at the open journal in his hand and nodded. “Repeated æthergate travel—at least the experimental version that Featherstone offered you—comes with quite a number of side-effects, which are unfortunately striking your soldiers. Your body is—now, how did Featherstone describe it to me—confused as to exactly where it is. A very simplified description, I’m sure, but prolonged exposure to its radiation will continue to tear apart your physical presence between two locations until...” and he spread his hands open, wiggling his fingers as he whispered, “poof.”
Makeala had taken a place at her cousin’s shoulder. He had not even noticed her standing up. “Can you stop it?”
“Oh, that is easy enough,” Jekyll said, “Stop using the æthergate. Eventually, the body heals itself, provided the side effects are caught in time.”
“But we must strike now.” Shardool groaned, having found his voice again as he took a seat with the others. “The army at Bombay will only strengthen if we give them time. All that we have done will be lost if we don’t press on.”
“You have no reason to trust me, Mr Kari, and every reason to slit my throat.” Jekyll closed the small notebook, and folded his hands on top of his notes. “I will provide you a safer alternative to the æthergates, which will still allow you to transport your men to where they need to be, and I will not ask for compensation until you are certain of the technology’s worth.”
If Nahush were a Christian he might have thought he was faced with the devil, but there was the Nāga from his own pantheon that Jekyll resembled. The trickster. The Persecutor of All. The King Cobra of great prowess and strength, living only to devour others. Yet, Nahush was not religious in that way. Science, even for its recent failings, had taken them further than they’d ever gone before.
“Keep talking,” he said, his hand nevertheless drifting to the hilt of his knife.
“This other technology, I can attest, comes from modern sciences well within our own understanding, its advancements allowing you limitless possibilities. Believe me, I want this device to work for you. If your movement succeeds, I will in turn.”
Nahush leaned in close to the doctor, though every one of his senses told him not to. “How?”
“Your stand against the Empire will not only draw the attention of the crown, but more importantly the attention of the Ministry. That means I can move about with a bit more freedom. Scrutiny is not something I work well under.”
“Your act of goodwill does not come without a cost?”
“Certainly not,” he chuckled, slipping the parchment out from his notebook and offering it to Nahush.
His eyes glanced over the paper, and then again just to be certain. “This is what you want in exchange for your services?”
“Do we have an agreement?”
Nahush could feel the rest of his seconds staring at him, and he knew what his captains and lieutenants were thinking. Trusting another white man so soon after being duped by the previous one was insane.
However, what other options did they have?
In the manner of the British, Nahush held out his hand. “Produce results, doctor. We must strike soon, and harder than before. If the British are seeking retribution…”
“Carpe diem, Mr Kari.” The corners of Jekyll’s eyes crinkled. His smile was kindly. Nahush did not trust it. “Tonight, I shall return with a few tools of this trade. I am sure we can salvage some parts from Featherstone’s æthergate to use in our new endeavour. We’ll have you bringing the dickens to the army before the week is out. You have my word.”
As Nahush rose to his feet, shaking hands with their new collaborator, he caught Makeala’s sharp gaze. She looked as stern as ever, but he could detect her concerns. They were the same as his, he was sure, but for now there was at least a glimmer of hope that their mission could be salvaged. It would have to be enough for now.
Chapter Seven
Wherein Our Dashing Archivist Rallies What’s Left of the Troops
The modest stack of case files landed against the desktop with a dull thump. Wellington tried to clear his head, tried to get out of his mind’s eye the sight he had just left. When he first undertook his duties as the Ministry’s Chief Archivist, Wellington had to set right the Archives in London. That had taken him a year. Once things were in order, he intended to travel to the larger field offices and restructure their own archival storages, starting with India. It had been a four-month undertaking; but when he was done with them, the Indian Archives rivalled London in their efficiency and expediency.
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Now, thanks to the Department of Imperial Inconveniences and the reconstruction of the Ministry, his work had been reduced to a diorama of the Sacking of Rome.
There was a strange, surreal quiet of the office, broken by just a murmur from the street outside, the rhythmic tick of contraptions at the far end of the room, and the snicker of the clerk on his typewriter. The odd cacophony he found rather pleasant after the excitement at Fort St Paul and the initial investigation that followed. He rapped a knuckle against the stack of files he managed to salvage from the Archives. Anything he could find on æthergate activity could be useful.
Wellington caught himself glancing at the clock again. He was trying very hard not to wonder when Eliza would return, nor preoccupy himself in wondering what she and Vania were discussing. Wellington understood the guilt Eliza carried with Ihita Pujari, but he could not fathom why she blamed herself. He knew her guilt after his own time in the battlefield. Sending young men to their demise all too soon had driven him away from life in the military. Eliza’s guilt, however, was unfounded. It was not as if Ihita had been following her orders. She had been a victim of the Culpepper sisters and their fanatical desire to stop the Suffragette movement. Perhaps Eliza’s guilt came from the fact she was alive and Ihita was not. Far be it from him to deny her a chance at, perhaps, finding a sense of redemption with Vania.
With Fort St Paul secured under nominal Ministry control, they had returned to the office in order to access the Archives as well as search Featherstone’s secret apartment. If he needed quiet, the office appeared to be the best place in India. Nearly all of the agents had accompanied Director Smith to continue investigation into the separatists’ attack, anything to stave off retribution from England. Spreading the dossiers across the desk, Wellington organised the various incidents chronologically, except for this one. Case #18840716INLD.
Now, he thought to himself, provided I can work uninterrupted…
“Agent Books!” a voice, accompanied by a rattle of running footsteps, called from the stairwell.
Wellington groaned softly. Sometimes, I wonder if I am not trapped in some sort of penny dreadful.
The agent appeared at the top of the stairs, her eyes wide, back straight. She looked very young, and perhaps a tad over excited. She brushed her dark hair out of her eyes and looked like she might actually give a salute. “Agent Books, sir,” she said, her voice somewhat strained. “I just picked up a surge in the ElectriFlux. A huge one.”
“Excellent.” They stared at each other for a moment. Apparently, this news was quite the sensation. It was just lost on Wellington, sadly. “And you are?”
She blinked, suddenly understanding Wellington’s confusion. “Oh, yes, my apologies, sir. Agent Strickland. Sierra Strickland. R&D.”
“Progress,” he said with a nod. “So, I know who you are. That leaves the ElectriFlux.”
“Yes, this reading. It is massive. Unlike anything I have ever seen.”
“Excellent.”
Again, they stared at each other in silence.
“Oh, yes, the ElectriFlux. Of course, you wouldn’t know,” she said, chuckling nervously. “Case #18710520UKMG. Sir Carroll Ludovic and Mercury’s Gate. He was using super-charged ion particles for his faux æthergates, the same sort of ion activity found in thunderstorms. We adjusted the ElectriFlux to pick up similar ion emissions found within æthergates.”
“Very clever, but with such an adjustment how are you certain this isn’t some false positive? You could be picking up a distant thunderstorm.”
“Best you come and have a look, Agent Books,” she said, motioning for him to follow.
Wellington kept pace with Agent Strickland as she thundered back down the staircase. She led him to a room with a thick iron door, similar to one R&D used beneath Miggins Antiquities to contain explosions and any out-of-control creations. Branch offices did not have the resources to run large-scale experimentation as they used to at Miggins. Obviously, the Indian office stood as an exception.
Agent Strickland guided him over to the desk at the rear of the laboratory where a large battery of test equipment was spread out before them. The array was a combination of Tesla coils, a Righi electrostatic machine, several small boilers all providing power, and several heavy cables that snaked up the corner of the laboratory and disappeared, presumably outside. Wellington’s gaze landed on a central gauge and immediately saw that the gauge’s needle was jammed into the red—threatening, in fact, to break.
“The adjustment for detection of these imitation æthergates was rather simple: incorporate into the array a standard-issue æthermetre.”
Wellington shook his head. Agent Strickland seemed cut from the same cloth as Axelrod and Blackwell. “Æthermetres are used to monitor sending and receiving of æthermail and for detecting harmful radiation emitted from newly-acquired artefacts. How can you modify it for this sort of precise detection?”
“Calibration, Agent Books. By using it in conjunction with the ElectriFlux, we can pick up specific ionic activity.”
Letting a ragged breath escape from between his teeth, Wellington adjusted his glasses and bent over the ElectriFlux array. Three control boxes wired together were offering a set of numbers—map coordinates—in each of their displays. The minutes were fluctuating slightly, but appeared to be remaining in the same longitude and latitude.
Agent Strickland whirled him around to an unfurled map of India. “We can’t seem to get a lock on to exact coordinates, but as you can see in the triangulation and taking into account of the variance, we’re predicting the singularity should happen…” She pointed to the map, her eyes triumphant as she looked at Wellington. “Here!”
He looked at the map and tilted his head to one side. “The Taj Mahal? That’s eight hundred miles from here. How are you picking up activity that far away?”
She looked at him, looked down at the map, then back up to him, a bit flustered. “Sorry. Got carried away there.” She carefully placed her finger on the map and looked up to Wellington. “Here!”
Wellington adjusted his spectacles and looked at where she pointed. “The docks.”
“The docks.”
Regardless of however mad this Ministry scientist was, it was abundantly clear: something was unfolding, yet again, with the Ghost Rebellion.
And Eliza was not here to lead the charge.
Wellington straightened up and adjusted his cravat. “Then let us not dally. We must rally the troops.”
Strickland suddenly went ashen. Was she in need of smelling salts? “What troops?”
“Certainly the director did not abscond with the entirety of the Indian Branch to Fort St Paul?”
“Well actually…” She really was in need of smelling salts.
“Right then, Agent Strickland, who is left in the office apart from you and me? Any active field agents by chance?”
Strickland straightened, a thin bead of sweat breaking out on her forehead. “Agent Donald Thorp, but he is...” and her thought trailed off with her words.
“What?” Wellington implored. “Sniper class? Hand-to-hand combatant? Bartitsu Master?”
“Clerical.” She bit her bottom lip. “And I’m R&D.”
“But you have field training, correct? Basic field training?” Wellington could hear a regimental tone creeping into his voice, but for the situation unfolding that was hardly a bad thing.
The agent’s skin was nearly ghost white by now, but then came the set of her jaw as she gave a quick nod. “Yes, sir, as it is required.”
“Send a quick æthermessage to Director Smith. Be brief, but let him know of our situation.”
“And then?”
“And then we will—as the Americans would say—saddle up.”
Wellington was sure Eliza, had she been in the room, would have made much of his ridiculous use of the term, but it gave the ginger to Strickland. He gestured back to the ElectriFlux. “Do you have a way to make this portable?”
“Perhaps,” s
he replied.
“You have ten minutes. You’re a clever sort, I’m sure you will come upon a solution,” Wellington said, hoping his words sounded convincing. He was digging deep for optimism. “I’ll inform Agent Thorp of our situation. Meet us by the lift.”
Leaving her to take care of the ElectriFlux, Wellington shot up into the stairwell to return to the office. Earlier, this reed-thin man, the burnt-red neck of a new-comer to India, had been typing away, chuckling happily to himself. He was now huddled over his paper-work, one hand leaning against his ear.
Wellington cleared his throat.
He cleared it again.
Then with a sigh rapped Agent Thorp on the shoulder.
The man leapt and nearly fell off his chair. It was at that moment Wellington discovered that the other man had an audio speaker nestled in the palm of his hand. The Ministry had been working on new methods of covert surveillance, but India, once again, appeared a little more advanced. Peering over Thorp’s shoulder, Wellington could see he had been transcribing something.
“Yes, sir,” Thorp said, rising so quickly to his feet that he might have been a jack-in-the-box. “How can I help? Does something need to be filed? Sorted?”
“We have an anomaly in the city, and with all other staff currently engaged at Fort St Paul, it is up to us to investi—”
“Fan—bloody—TASTIC!” Thorp chuckled gleefully as he threw a switch from underneath his desk. His desktop split in two, scattering papers and pencils everywhere, which seemed to matter very little to him at present.
Wellington looked down to where the desktop had once been and he nearly toppled over.
A pair of Webley-Maxim Mark IIs.
Three Rickies.
Five Firestorms.
Two Mule’s Kicks.
Across the bottom of the weapons compartment, a Lee-Metford-Tesla. Mark V.
“I was told you were clerical,” Wellington managed.
Agent Thorp was strapping on a belt and immediately holstered a pair of Mavericks. He then released the rifle from its mount, pulled it in close to him, and smiled. “Not today.”
The Ghost Rebellion Page 14
