The Ghost Rebellion

by Pip Ballantine, Tee Morris

  Eliza drew her second pistol and fired. He jerked back when the bullet hit his shoulder. He looked as if he was to fall right there, but instead he sprinted for the foyer. Eliza took a second shot, but this time the bullet struck only the wooden arch.

  “Dammit,” she swore. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, Eliza turned back to Vania. “You alright there, Pujari?”

  Vania let out a little growl of her own. “I was going to ask you the same, Braun.”

  There was a slight ringing in her ears. Hopefully, she was just rattled and not suffering a concussion. “I really could use a drink.”

  “What do you think he wanted?”

  “He was making some work for himself,” Eliza said, pointing back to the bedroom. “Papers all over the bed, and this.”

  “A portable æthermessenger?” Vania reached for one of the documents on the bed. “Doesn’t look like anything we don’t know already. These look like notes from Mercury’s Gate.”

  “I think finding anything here is wishful thinking, but that?” she said, motioning to the communication device. “A little treasure trove, this is. Pristine condition. Looks like Featherstone took right good care of it.”

  “How does this help us?”

  “Æthermessengers are equipped with an internal log that can be accessed. Portable ones, the memory bricks are smaller.”

  Vania inclined her head. “You know how to operate one of these things? These contraptions are quite complicated.”

  “I am in love with a clankerton. You tend to pick up a few new skills in such a relationship. All we need are his most recent messages. Say the past month or so.”

  “You think he was using this to talk to Jekyll?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Turning the æthermessenger to face her, Eliza went to power up the device when a rattling boom echoed through the skies of Bombay.

  “Eliza?” Vania asked.

  “Wasn’t me.” She went to the window and studied the plume of smoke reaching up to the sky. “Knowing my ‘things that go boom,’ that explosion did not have the concussive strength of ordinance the Ministry uses.” Eliza walked to the far side of the bed and found her other pounamu pistol. Holstering it, she made for the door.

  “But wait, aren’t we heading back to headquarters?”

  “You’re going back to headquarters with that,” she said, pointing to the æthermessenger. “R&D should be able to access the memory. Might be able to find out what was being shared between Featherstone and Jekyll.”

  Vania called from behind her. “Wait, where are you going?”

  “Oh my dear Vania, in your time with the Ministry, you should know this is what we do. When others run away from the explosions, we run toward them!”

  Chapter Nine

  In Which an Archivist-Turned-Agent Loses Himself in a Fit of Passion

  Wellington, Strickland, and Thorp were thrown backwards as the spitting, snarling sphere of blue-white electricity punctuated the space in front of the Army & Navy building, releasing rebels around the plaza in wave upon wave. Wellington sat upright to see soldiers of the Ghost Rebellion drop to the ground and roll back up on their feet. Unlike an æthergate, the electroporter deposited its contents in a singular wild burst of light, energy, and power, and in a flash, insurgents filled the courtyard before them.

  Two soldiers directly across from the Bombay Bug were first to fall. Trained, perhaps experienced soldiers, ill-prepared to face an army appearing out of thin air. This was one of many reasons Director Sound had chosen to keep æthergate technology under lock and key in the London Archives. Such an advantage could be exploited for far more nefarious purposes. That, however, was not Wellington’s primary concern. Only a handful of people knew about Atlantean technology, but the amount of people who knew about electroporters? An even smaller lot. Far smaller.

  And the Ghost Rebellion had in their possession an electroporter.

  The Army & Navy building itself suddenly shook with a concussive explosion from the inside. The central command burst from the back sending dust and debris high into the sky. Some of the separatists must have appeared directly inside the building itself. A show of remarkable accuracy that Wellington had never seen before.

  “Bloody hell,” Thorp yelled before shouldering the Mark V. “Right then, let’s fight a little fire with fire.” He threw another switch near the rifle’s trigger, and a small kickstand extended from the middle of the barrel. Thorp propped the rifle’s end on the edge of the Bug’s front-left wheel and took aim across the causeway. “If you don’t have a pair of sunspecs,” Thorp said as he slipped on his own, “you might want to close your eyes.”

  Wellington heard the whine of the Lee-Metford-Tesla’s generators, and screwed his eyes shut just before hearing the muffled thud of what he knew to be a concentrated plasma blast. He opened his eyes just in time to see the blast impact with the separatists, sending bodies flying in every direction. This explosion was only a pause for the Ghost Rebellion though, and they began their assault anew, peppering the area with rifle and handgun fire. As bullets zipped through the air, Wellington yanked Strickland behind the Bug, screaming for Thorp to take cover just before a Gatling opened up on them. They heard a swarm of bullets angrily ping off their motorcar’s bonnet. Suddenly, Wellington wished they had more than a set of pistols and a single modified rifle to call on.

  “Don’t suppose the Bug possesses armaments of any kind?” he asked Strickland, who was looking rather pale.

  A shake of the head was all Wellington got in return.

  He dared a look around the corner of their vehicle, and that was when he saw Thorp sprawled across the ground, his white linen suit stained with a sheen of beige dust and five bullet holes running up his torso. Wellington took stock of where they were pinned down. Across from them, a group of British soldiers by the storehouse’s door had taken cover near a stack of crates. Behind them, there was a small detail locking down the aeroport. He could not hear the airships any longer on account of the gunfire, but he could see they were gaining altitude. Separatists were still mowing down anyone still standing in the plaza. He caught sight of what could have been the remains of a squad taking shelter in a simple hardware store. Those men would not last long, so Wellington knew that he had to move.

  “Thorp is dead,” he told Strickland. She looked wildly about, but did not look like she would panic. “We need to help those lads across the way. Stay here,” he said, handing her the Ricky he had pocketed. “Eight shots. High velocity. Make them count.”

  Strickland nodded quickly. Wellington recognised the sweat across her brow and neck as not coming from the heat. He gave her a reassuring nod, then crouched low and belly-crawled over to Agent Thorp’s body. He was not familiar with the Mark V upgrades, but at first glance he could deduce enough to access the basic workings. The kickstand was new, and within seconds of stabilising the rifle, he loved the subtle addition. His first shot took down the separatist leading a small group towards their position. They immediately scattered, but not before Wellington felled another in their number. He then flipped up a new feature of the Mark V—a telescopic sight. Earlier models offered such an accessory as optional, but this had to be one of the upgrades. He had just slipped the bolt back into a firing position when he caught sight of a head peering from around a corner. For his pains, Wellington sent the man a bullet.

  Through the scope, Wellington could see intermittent flashes coming from the windows of the Army & Navy building. Perhaps the lads still inside were putting up a fight. Well done, he thought.

  When he pulled away his attention from the scope, he saw the separatist walking down the middle of the causeway. Even from this distance, Wellington could see in the man’s eyes nothing but malicious intent of the darkest kind. The lines in his face appeared as carvings across dark wood, and watching him approach, he felt himself grow colder. Over this man’s shoulder was a large backpack, connected to a series of tubes and valves that would have looke
d more at home in a laboratory than a battlefield. Wellington would have assumed it was one of those Havelock battle suits but instead of a Gatling, this separatist wielded a hose in his hands.

  And he was alone. None of his compatriots were in sight.

  Wellington returned to the Mark V’s scope, and in the magnified view he watched the separatist turn a valve from where he held the hose. Bright blue flame poured out of the spout, covering the ground six feet in front of him. Wellington half-expected the man to be incinerated as he disappeared behind this wall of fire. However, when the flames dissipated, there he stood. The hardware storefront wherein the British soldiers had taken shelter was now engulfed. With a weapon of this kind, their protection had become a death-trap-in-the-making.

  Wellington flipped the charging button on the transformer, and went to line up the fire-slinging madman in his crosshairs. He was about to fire when more insurgents ran past the flamethrower, using the chaos as their cover.

  With heavy smoke casting shadows and obscuring possible sightlines, Wellington tugged free from Agent Thorp his belt. Once the belt was secured about his own waist, he then fished out of the dead man’s pockets several Firestorms.

  “Strickland!” he called as he threw the Mark V across his back. “Get back into the Bug and wait for me in the cockpit.”

  She peered around the corner. “Are you sure?”

  “No, not really,” Wellington said, scampering over to her, “but I’m having a thought.”

  He followed the engineer into the safety of the armoured vehicle. Setting the Mark V aside, Wellington settled into the uncomfortable driver’s seat. “Prime the boilers, if you please.”

  “Yessir,” Agent Strickland said as she began opening valves and flipping switches on the passenger’s side. “Shouldn’t be long.”

  “We will drive the Bug closer to the hardware store and rescue those held up in there. With their help, we should be able to hold position until reinforcements arrive.”

  “What weapons have we on hand?”

  “Three Rickies, plus whatever is left in the rifle.” Wellington reached under the dashboard and released the brake. “Get—”

  A rush of air followed by the sound of something cutting through flesh knocked Wellington out of his seat. He looked up to Agent Strickland, and instinctively grabbed the Mark V as he slid against the floor, out of the cockpit. Had there been a windshield, there would have been a chance it would have deflected such a high velocity bullet. Instead, with the open viewport, Wellington had practically handed the insurgents a target. The back of Strickland’s head spilt blood, along with small bits of bone and brain matter, down the passenger seat. This gore shattered something inside Wellington.

  I failed her, he thought while shimmying to the back of the Bug. He reached overhead, undid the latch, and was dumped unceremoniously out into the world, the escape appearing from the outside as a short, squat, metal-monster shitting a Ministry agent against the dusty Indian plaza. I failed them both, he thought as he braced himself against the Bug’s treads.

  He pulled the Lee-Metford-Tesla into his chest, his eyes shut tight as he worked the bolt action. They are dead because of me. His thumb pressed the transformer as Gatling guns opened up on his position. They were counting on me, and I failed them.

  A voice from the past called to him. Go on, my son. Make me proud.

  His eyes flicked open. Wellington got to his feet, though it felt as if someone else was controlling him. He knew he was moving into the open. Was someone calling out to him to take cover? What a ridiculous notion. Based on the exit wound in Strickland’s skull, he knew exactly where the sniper had taken position. The scope came in line with his eye. The man’s headwrap was just visible on the other side of his own rifle, but Wellington had been a few heartbeats faster. He saw the offending sniper’s head snap back before he lowered the rifle.

  Immediate threat eliminated. Now to begin work on the entrenched separatists. A small team off to his left, taking position behind crates newly unloaded from the moored cargo ship. Another to his right had taken position in front of a small café, tables now overturned and serving as makeshift shields. Perhaps this had been a squad, separated into two teams in order to form a modest gauntlet.

  That’s it, boy, his father said, his voice strangely strong and confident. Not the voice he remembered on their last meeting. Show these ungrateful bastards the might of the Empire they defy.

  Wellington spun up the generator on the Mark V, but slipped the rifle over his shoulder before drawing the Rickies. The calls of the separatists he recognised as the local dialect, but he did not know the particulars. His time in war made interpreting the foreign tongue’s intent crystal clear to him. He pulled the trigger of the left Ricky three times, then held up the right pistol and pulled that trigger four times. Before he could confirm kills, Wellington slipped to his right behind a pair of outdoor display stands. He heard the tearing and splintering of wood from a spray of bullets. If not careful, he would find himself pinned in this position, his cover eventually deteriorating under the assault of gunfire. There came another volley, this time from the separatists entrenched closest to him. Then the gunfire ceased. They were either reloading or waiting for him to take a shot.

  Wellington holstered a Ricky, and produced a single Firestorm. The canister was barely larger than his hand, and on shaking the weapon vigorously, he could feel its contents coalescing together, giving the grenade a bit of weight. He knew what it would do on impact, but he was preferring a more dramatic punishment for these insurgents.

  Wellington tossed the grenade high into the air at the separatists keeping hold in front of the café. Had Wellington allowed the grenade to continue, it would have sailed far beyond the intended target. That, however, had been the intention. They would be able to tell the Firestorm would not land anywhere near them. They would enjoy a sense of confidence. They would let their guard down.

  And even if their guard had remained up, they would not have any defence against Wellington’s offensive.

  He took aim and fired the Ricky, effectively and efficiently causing the Firestorm to explode above the separatists. The gelatinous compound mimicked a summer’s downpour, only carrying an intense, hungry fire that devoured the men caught underneath it. Screams were filling the air, and one man broke free of the cover to run into the plaza.

  Let him burn, boy, his father said, quite pleased with Wellington’s improvisation.

  Now emerging from cover, Wellington shook a fresh Firestorm, primed it, and then hurtled it towards the rebels peering from the other side of crates stacked dockside. This time, the Firestorm shattered on hitting the ground. Flame swept from the point of impact, the fire straining to keep up with the viscous substance spilling across the docks. The fire would keep them back, giving him enough time and opportunity to throw one more Firestorm. He could feel the liquid switch from one end of the canister to the other, was aware of a shift in the bomb’s weight, and watched it take flight. One managed to get free of the grenade, but his escape ended abruptly on account of Wellington’s aim and the Ricky’s high-calibre shell.

  From somewhere far off came distant pop-pop-pop’s, but they were not firing at him. That gunfire must be coming from the Army & Navy building. Could the tide be turning in their favour?

  The sounds of celebration suddenly tickled his ears. Gunfire was still coming from within the headquarters, but the plaza and dock has been defended. That was why the men were jubilant.

  They are celebrating? The outrage in his father’s voice Wellington knew far too intimately. What do they think this is? Some sort of Sunday outing with tennis and croquet? They have forgotten their service, their promise to the Empire.

  Wellington felt himself toss the Ricky aside and slip the Mark V into his grasp. The generator indicated green. Ready to fire. If it were not for their callous, careless attitude, those agents would still be alive.

  The rifle hummed gently in his tight grip.

 
; Discipline them, my son. Remind them of their responsibilities, and the consequences of failure.

  Interlude

  Wherein a Simple Mission Becomes Terribly Complicated

  “Right then, a factory full of Houseboys and the three of us planning to infiltrate,” Bruce said as he laid alongside Ryfka and Brandon across the snow. It was still deeply dark, but the Starlight goggles were evening things out. “Can’t see how this little operation could end poorly.”

  Ryfka rapped his shoulder. Her signing was a bit harder to make out, even with help from the Starlights, but Bruce managed. I have watched this factory for three weeks now. This particular entry point is the most vulnerable.

  When they had left Old Blighty, Bruce and Brandon had prepared for a simple infiltration job. They were also packing light, only the barest of essentials for a quick getaway. Now, following a long night of animated conversations with Ryfka punctuated by the slumber-fuelled interjections of Grand-uncle Leib, they were planning a reconnaissance mission on an Usher outpost. No intelligence or logistics for support. No reinforcements for backup. Simply what they had in the field. Bruce had been able to enjoy the brashness of the plan, but now on the factory’s perimeter, the chances of success on any of their objectives looked terribly thin. Whatever original intentions he and Brandon had in making this heist a simple, by-the-numbers grab-and-go were completely secondary. This was Ryfka’s mission now.

  Remember, Bruce signed to Ryfka, you cover us. This may be your operation, but Brandon and I have done this sort of thing before. Besides, if things went pear-shaped, it would be nice to have someone covering their sprint across open snow.