The Ghost Rebellion

by Pip Ballantine, Tee Morris

  The women passed an automaton shop, the scent of oil and grease tickling her nose, where at least a dozen metallic heads turned to follow their progress. Some of them had legs or wheels, but the others looked to be under some kind of rebuilding process. One called out to the two of them in a series of beeps and boops.

  “Did that automaton recognise us as possible customers?” Eliza asked.

  “It is a possibility,” Vania replied. “Our engineers, especially our street scientists, are quite talented, but like Harsha, they want to make India a better place. They will never leave home.”

  Vania then fell silent. Even with the cacophony of the bazaar, her silence Eliza found deafening. She had to break it.

  “Ihita had a good life in London,” she blurted out. “She was admired and appreciated by everyone who worked with her in the Ministry. I just thought you might want to know.”

  Vania nodded and drained the last of her chai. “She wrote to me about her adventures there, and she did seem…content…”

  They walked a little further, stepping out of the way of a couple of laughing boys riding bicycles down the middle of the street. Eliza would rather have faced a dozen House of Usher agents than have this conversation.

  If she was lucky, maybe some would turn up.

  Staring down into her now empty cup, Vania finally spoke. “She is the reason I joined the Ministry, I admit.”

  “Hardly a surprise.” Eliza daringly pressed her hand on the top of Vania’s. “You want to feel close to her, hold onto the bits of her that remain.”

  The younger woman smiled, and for a moment Eliza was back on the embankment in London, sitting by the Thames, sharing sandwiches with her friend.

  Eliza sniffled, fanned herself with one hand, and gestured with her own teacup to the houses on either side of them. “This really doesn’t seem to be a place Lord Featherstone would fit in. He was very fond of the better things in life.”

  “You’d be surprised how many rich Bombay folk have a little pied-à-terre in the town that no one knows about.” Vania nodded in the direction of pale-skinned shoppers milling about the marketplace. “And as you can see, there are still some English about.”

  It was true, though they were in one of the less salubrious parts of the city, there were still tourists around them. The desire to find something cheap and exotic was obviously quite the lure. Not so different from London, Eliza supposed. Plenty of men went down to the fleshpots of the East End for the same reason. Perhaps this didn’t look exactly like London, but people were people the world over.

  Featherstone, however was a mystery, right up until the moment he was swallowed by the paddles of the steamer.

  The women finished their chai, and it was Vania that smashed the pottery cup by simply throwing it to one side of the road. With an arched eyebrow, Eliza followed suit.

  “You learn quickly,” Vania said, smiling brightly.

  “I try. And that,” Eliza said, pointing to the remains of her cup, “was delicious. I could certainly get used to that flavour.”

  “India has many wonderful things about it. We’re not all curries and cotton you know.”

  “I am beginning to learn.”

  “This way then,” Vania said, glancing up a slightly smaller side street. It looked to be less clogged with stalls, though still part of the bazaar.

  A young Indian man with a twitching automaton in one hand approached them, holding it aloft to demonstrate something about its workings. Vania spoke to him in quick Hindi, waving her hands, and dismissing him as best she could. However, just as you would find in London, street vendors were persistent. The peddler followed them for a few minutes, shouting something at them. It was impossible for Eliza to tell if he was simply trying to make a sale or if he was throwing insults at them. Vania looked unfazed by the whole scene, and guided Eliza up the narrow passage at a faster pace.

  “Nearly there,” she said.

  Eliza was trying to keep her wits about her in this darker corner of India, but she found herself distracted by Vania. She sensed the other woman teetered on the verge of asking her something. Her fellow agent kept biting her lip and shooting sidelong glances her way.

  “Right then, that’s it,” Eliza huffed, spinning Vania round to face her.

  “What?”

  “If we are to continue this investigation, we have to trust each other.” She watched Vania’s skin pale slightly. “Out with it.”

  “Are you and Agent Books involved?” Vania asked in a rush.

  It was not at all what Eliza had been expecting, and she stopped for a moment in the shade of a building and stared at her companion. “I…well…so, Wellington Books…”

  Vania was blushing now. “Forgive me, it was just something Ihita mentioned in her letters…”

  “Wait, Ihita was curious about me and Wellington? But we had not even kissed then.”

  “She noticed something in you whenever you mentioned his name. Ihita said it was always a very sweet smile.”

  “Welly gave me trouble when we first met.”

  “Perhaps, but Ihita saw something else.”

  Shaking her head, Eliza muttered to herself, “Was I already taken with him by then?”

  “Then there are the rumours going around the office…”

  “I beg your pardon?” she whispered tersely.

  Vania held up her hands in surrender. “From all I have heard of Wellington Books, he is a brilliant man. His skills in deception, however, are amateur at best.” Her hands dropped and she released a long, slow shrug. “When he looks at you, he gets this rather cute…lost puppy dog look.”

  That people were talking about her in India was a surprise, but she supposed it had to get out eventually. “Yes, yes, we are. It has its complications,” she admitted.

  “I do not mean to make things awkward, but particularly at Fort St Paul it was rather endearing how he fretted over you.”

  Eliza sighed. “Oh my precious, young lady, he wants to be my valiant protector. My white knight…”

  “Your mother hen?”

  They held a gaze in silence before bursting into laughter. “He does mean well, but Wellington sometimes forgets I can take care of myself. I have done so for years.”

  “But now it is you and Wellington. This is new. To both of you.”

  Eliza nodded. Vania shared that perception Ihita once possessed. “Yes. Yes, it is, but make no mistake—Wellington and I know our duty.”

  “Ah, yes, duty.” Vania sighed. “We’re all about duty at the Ministry.”

  “And gossip, apparently.”

  “I suppose we all have our vices. Director Smith is allowed his own.”

  “Maulik started this?” Eliza groaned in frustration. “I should have known. That man…he’s worse than a fishwife.”

  Vania shot her a sideways smile, but refrained from making comment on her superior. Instead she gestured towards a house painted a bright green.

  “This is it, I believe,” Vania said.

  All the houses here were three storeys high, side-by-side with no room between them, and slightly sagging against each other. It was the perfect location for someone of high standing wanting to remain anonymous. Eliza turned to Vania and caught her smiling again, but this time out of pure pride. Despite the fact that she was the senior agent, they had been only able to find this place thanks to Vania’s help.

  However, it was important the senior agent lay some ground rules. “No heroics. If we find anyone upstairs, you get out of the way. The person we are tracking is no one to be trifled with.”

  Vania straightened. “I have been through training. My combat skills are certainly up to date.”

  Now Eliza was reminded of Ihita’s stubbornness. Vania’s sister had a highly honed skill for avoiding arguments and still doing exactly what she wanted. Now Eliza wondered if that was a family trait.

  Pressing her lips together, she glared at Vania. “Presently, I am the senior agent in the field, so remember the rules
of the Ministry.” Vania didn’t reply. Eliza wasn’t foolish enough to take her silence as compliance. “Are we clear?”

  Vania’s nod was barely perceptible.

  Eliza’s gaze wandered up the side of the building. No visible surfaces to scale should they come back that night. It would have to be a front entrance.

  Turning to Vania, she began to lay out a plan. “If we run into anyone up there who knows Featherstone, you are the scorned young woman and I am your guardian recently arrived from York come to help you get a ring on your finger from him.”

  Vania adjusted her jacket. “I can manage that.”

  “Then rub your eyes a bit. Redness and near tears are what we need.”

  Vania was quick to comply, scrubbing furiously at her face until she did indeed look on the verge of crying.

  “Now look distraught,” Eliza instructed.

  She could have been on the stage the way her expression melted into despair so quickly.

  “You missed your calling,” Eliza muttered as they entered the building.

  Almost immediately a little round woman came racing out, yelling at them in Hindi. It didn’t matter where you were in the world, a landlady was always angry.

  Not missing her cue, Vania burst out into hysterical sobs, stammering in Hindi what Eliza could only assume was their hastily-formulated legend. She waved her hands in the air and then threw her arms around Eliza.

  “Give…” she whispered, sobbed into Eliza’s shoulder for a moment, and then continued, “…money…”

  Eliza gently rubbed Vania’s back, shushed her, and offered the old woman a few coins. It seemed to do the trick, and the landlady—who offered in Hindi what Eliza guessed by the abrupt hand gestures was advice on what to do to Featherstone—handed over the key. It was a delightful change not having to kick in a door or pick a lock.

  The building was broken up into small apartments, and despite its appearance outside, it looked to be mostly families living here. A little girl was in the corridor with her brother as they ascended the stairs. Eliza smiled at her, and the girl gave a little wave as they went past, though her brother was tugging on her arm. With almost a visceral pang, the agent remembered her brother, Gerry, doing the very same thing when they were small. It had been a bother to have her siblings trailing after her, but Gerry in particular had always wanted to do what she was doing. The boy’s innocent gesture distracted her with wonderings of what was happening back home.

  Even now, from the shores of India, New Zealand still tugged on her heart.

  “Eliza?” And just like that, she was back in the apartments outside of the Chor Bazaar. Vania’s brow knotted slightly. “Are you alright?”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding. Eliza could feel a tightness in her throat. “Dandy, thank you.”

  They reached the second floor and walked along the landing to apartment 1F. This was according to Featherstone’s notes where he would meet with Jekyll. Perhaps a perfect hiding spot from the curious eyes of the privileged either living in or visiting India. Scanning the door, Eliza could tell it had not been forced in any way. She motioned for the key while silently pulling out one of her pounamu pistols from under her jacket. Vania unholstered a standard Ministry issue Remington-Elliott as Eliza eased the key into the door. She had turned it only halfway before she paused.

  “What?” Vania mouthed.

  “Not. Locked.” Eliza replied in a similar fashion.

  Based on how well he had hidden his personal journals in his suite on the African Sunset, Featherstone had hardly given the impression of a man who was lax on security. Eliza raised one finger to her lips, and jerked her head towards the door. Vania’s eyes locked with hers, and with a nod, Eliza eased the door open and slipped inside.

  It was immediately apparent that Featherstone’s apartment was much bigger than it had a right to be. Three of the walls were hung with beautiful silks, and fine Indian paintings. The fourth wall was quite different; it was lined with so many weapons even Eliza stood impressed. One glance told her that Featherstone was quite an aficionado. He had gathered a variety of Indian weapons, swords, sticks, even bows and arrows. If he were not a collector, Eliza would have easily believed Featherstone to be constantly expecting unpleasant company.

  Vania brought her fist up and Eliza froze. Somewhere deeper in the apartment, unpleasant or otherwise, company was present.

  Eliza identified the sound straightaway—she had heard it often enough in her time in the Archives. Papers were being shuffled, and after a moment, Eliza heard the sound of drawers being opened.

  Turning to Vania, she gave her a stern look and held a hand up to her. Stay here, she was communicating, though it was impossible to say if her companion got it. Partnered with Wellington she had grown accustomed to making her intentions clear. Abundantly clear, as a matter of fact. Making the doorway in wide, soft strides, she glanced back and was relieved to find Vania right where she had left her: standing in the middle of the receiving room. Her Remington-Elliott remained primed but held down. Her stance was solid. A gleam of fortitude in her eye. Vania appeared true to form for a Ministry agent. Ihita would have approved, she thought.

  Another rustling of paper brought Eliza’s attention back to the adjoining room. With her pounamu pistol held up and outward, she continued across the parlour. She slipped her head around the threshold and, in the study, she saw no one. She could see into a washroom, the epitome of luxury with a beautiful bath in it, but no one was there either. Ahead lay the bedroom with the door open, and she could see an intruder concentrating on his task, his back turned towards the hallway. So not a professional, then.

  Eliza slipped into the room, her pistol aimed on the man yanking open shelves in Featherstone’s bedside table. A stack of papers was strewn across the bed. At the centre of the bed sat a portable æthermessenger. Its keys, vacuum chambers, microboilers, and visible mechanics were polished to a fine gleam. Featherstone really did have access to all the best toys. No wonder the army found him so useful.

  Eliza cleared her throat, and the man spun about. He was a young man, Indian, somewhat burly, and rather surprised by her appearance.

  “I am sure,” she began, now hoping he understood English, “you have a very good reason for rifling through Lord Featherstone’s bedroom. Don’t you?”

  They stared at each other for a moment, and then he suddenly dropped to his knees, his wails easily filling the room. Perhaps the entire suite.

  With her pistol still trained on him, Eliza tried to keep control of a situation she knew was escalating. “What—what are you—oh for goodness’ sake, stop that!”

  “Please, oh please, kind lady, do not hurt me!” he wailed. His English was hardly fluent, but it was enough. “I have a sick mother to feed! I have been forced—forced—to break laws of our queen!” He held his hands over his eyes, and rocked back and forth. “I hear Lord Featherstone is dead…so I come looking for things to sell.”

  Quite a performance, Eliza thought. Brilliant writing, inspired direction. Her eyes narrowed on what he was wearing. Pity his costumer was not up to snuff.

  “Poor man,” she said, her pistol still held steady on him. “That must have weighed heavily on you when trying to take Fort St Paul.” His expression switched from tormented to stunned. “Markings of the Mughal Empire, yes?”

  It was only an instant, but in that instant the intruder transformed from reluctant thief to trained warrior looking for an opportunity. His grin suggested he might have found one, even kneeling on the ground.

  He screwed his eyes shut and flicked his hand against the wooden floor. Eliza managed to catch a glimpse of a ring before the flash of light filled her eyes. She stumbled back a step, and then something struck her. Eliza’s head rung as she toppled over, the back of her skull striking the wooden planks in the floor. His arms were around her waist, and he was leveraging all his weight into her, effectively pinning her to the ground. Though stunned, Eliza allowed her training, her reflexes, and more i
mportantly her time growing up the middle girl between two brothers, to take over. Her fist connected with something. She hit it again, and again.

  “Ow!” she heard him say. “Ow! Ow! You’re…punching me…in the ear!”

  As he ground his hips into her own, Eliza swung again. Harder. No, punching him in the ear would not end this fight as a solid hit to his lip or, better yet, his nose. What she did know was this would give him a hell of a headache. Rattling his own skull like this also confirmed that he had not received any of the good doctor’s serum.

  However, he wasn’t letting go, and he kept pressing his body into hers.

  You. Rotten. Flapdoodle.

  Her left hand wrapped around his head and yanked. The side of his face pressed into her chest. Looking down, her vision was still lost in a grey-white haze but she could just make out an exposed face.

  “You wanted this!” And Eliza punched him in the nose. “You could have just talked to me!” Another punch. Not until she knew for certain. “But you—wanted—this!”

  On the third punch, just over his screams, Eliza heard—and felt—the nose give way.

  Bringing her knee up, she connected with his stomach. Between the assault on his ear and his nose, he finally released her. Eliza pushed him off, and continued to blink her eyes madly hoping to get her sight back while scrambling about for her dropped pistol. The weapon appeared out of the fog in her eyes, but before she could grasp it, he lunged at her again, this time locking her arms against her side and picking her up. Together, they landed hard against the floor of the study.

  He turned her over and leaned close into her. Eliza thrust her forehead up and cracked him on the nose with a solid Glasgow Kiss. If his nose was not broken before, it was now. Between rapping her own head against the floor and that Kiss, the world teetered around her. She could hear the intruder let out a muffled howl of rage. His hands were probably clamped around his nose and mouth, and if he wanted to breathe, he would have to...

  Crunch.

  His scream was delicious.

  When Eliza’s vision cleared, she saw Vania bearing down on the insurgent. She heard Hindi shouted between them, and they collided into one another. The Remington-Elliot clattered to the far end of the room. Eliza staggered to her feet, sure she was about to see a fellow agent slaughtered before her eyes. He had Vania up against the wall, hands locked around her throat, but he did not keep her there for long. Vania cocked back her arm as much as she could and punched the rebel in the throat. As he stumbled back, she collapsed to the floor.