The Ghost Rebellion

by Pip Ballantine, Tee Morris

  Ryfka’s eyes on account of the Starlights were hidden from view, but from how slow and deliberate her reply was, the Russian could not have been happy with him at present. Understood, Agent Campbell. Consider yourself covered. Just remember, I have been working undercover inside. Follow the map I gave Brandon, and we all get what we want.

  I know, Bruce said, trying not to get curt with their only ally here. We get the Firebird feather while you get hard evidence for this raid you want. We’re all square.

  Ryfka nodded. Don’t cock it up.

  Somehow, in sign language, the slight came across twice as insulting.

  Returning his attention to the valley below them, Bruce turned the Starlight’s magnification to maximum as he examined the low-lying, grey box that was the munitions factory. Ryfka had drawn a pretty good diagram of the outpost, and it looked just as charming as she had described it. For a factory that specialised in bullets, bombs, and other gadgets that went boom, it seemed rather large. On account of its size, this factory made no effort to blend into the wilds of Russia. In fact, it appeared extravagant, as if it wanted to be noticed. Bruce would never admit to it, but that unsettled him.

  Usher had been quiet for many years, “quiet” a relative term at best. Bruce and Brandon had tangled with them early in their partnership across America and Canada. Usher was definitely an obsession with the Fat Man, even though their recent ventures were more characteristic of predators preoccupied in building private empires than watching the world burn. Bruce preferred them the latter as opposed to the former. Perhaps that was why the Ministry was so caught off-guard when Books was pinched. They had grown comfortable in Usher’s “shadow government” schemes, and had not seen that coming. Who knew that plonker was such a high-value target?

  Then he felt his throat tighten. Who knew that plonker would wind up saving his skin in Edinburgh four months ago?

  Now, looking at these Houseboys patrolling the perimeter in lock-step as a well-oiled, fine-tuned machination told Bruce they were returning to that Golden Age of Chaos. Someone had given this old raven a kick up the ass.

  Bruce went to give Ryfka the signal to move into position, but her pleasing figure was no longer there.

  “Where did she go?” he asked.

  “She slipped away just after you and she said whatever you two said to one another. The only reason I know this is I happened to be looking in your direction. Silent as the grave, she is.”

  Bruce swept his Starlights around the surrounding ridge. Nothing. There was no movement whatsoever. Not even a clump of snow tumbling down the hillside. Wherever she had slipped off to, she was invisible. The snow, the darkness, the wilderness of Russia accepted Ryfka into her embrace and now they were one.

  Bloody terrifying—but then he had always preferred bloody terrifying women.

  “Ready, mate?” Bruce asked, adjusting the hood of his snowsuit.

  With a nod, Brandon flipped his weather-white hood over his head and belly-crawled out of their cover, leading the way down toward their objective. Here out of sight of the factory there was nothing but layers of snow. Bruce and Brandon slinked silently from the top of the ridge, but remaining undetected meant an achingly slow progress down their slope. They had not made it a quarter of the way before Bruce noticed the cold beginning to creep through his clothes.

  Brandon was just in front of him, so Bruce was able to see his left hand slip against ice instead of the snow needed to make modest traction. Bruce’s right hand shot forward like a bullwhip, his fingers clamping around Brandon’s ankle. His other hand drove deep and hard into the snowdrift. They slid a few inches, and Bruce felt a lump in his throat as he watched chunks of ice and powder tumble down the hill.

  Then Bruce heard a hard pop, followed by a sharp, almost deafening crack. A fairly heavy branch, its reach wide and many-fingered, landed just behind them and started to roll down the hillside. Bruce let go of Brandon, and began to follow the branch. He kept rolling, even as he felt the branches brushing and clawing at his suit. Then when the branches stopped, he stopped as well. Easily done as the slope underneath him had evened out. Bruce peeked out from his hood. Brandon was also hidden under the multitude of branches and a slight dusting of snow. The guards by the factory, barely visible against the surrounding snowdrifts, stood there for a moment. One of them shook his head, and with a hard rap to his mate’s shoulder, they turned back towards their post at the factory.

  While their backs were to them, Bruce and Brandon slipped closer in behind the fallen branch. At the break point, he could see in his Starlights the shards of wood, some of it still fresh with life, and the bullet that had weakened its hold on the tree. Ryfka really was quite a cracking shot.

  “You alright?” Brandon whispered.

  “Might be a bit bruised up,” he replied. “None the worse for wear.”

  “Five minutes, then we move.”

  Five minutes of remaining still. It was nothing new to Bruce, but that time in enemy territory, well within range of a firearm, might as well have been five hours.

  Assured that the guards were out of earshot and the stillness had returned, Bruce and Brandon crawled free of their branch cover and huddled behind a modest rise in the snow. Brandon then slipped out a Remington-Elliot, checked its processors, and passed it on to Bruce. “So, running or crawling?” he asked, producing from the haversack what looked like a shotgun case of some description.

  “Considering the snow?” Bruce eyeballed it. There were still plenty of hours of darkness left to them. “Crawl.”

  “Very well, then,” he replied, unzipping the case and producing the weapon inside.

  A weapon that made Bruce’s jaw drop.

  It looked as large as a shotgun, four barrels arranged in a diamond pattern; but the length of the weapon resembled a pistol in some respects. A hand cannon, hastily modified in the field. There looked to be a pump-action loading mechanism to it, but there also appeared to be a variety of piping and values welded into where the chambers met. Across the top barrels was a tight coil of copper that ended just shy of a pair of metal rods that came close to touching one another.

  “What in the bloody hell is that monster?” Bruce asked.

  Brandon hefted the weapon and smiled at it as if it were a new lover. “This, my friend, is the Nagant-Benardos M1899 Hand Cannon. Eight shells. Combination cartridge and pump action loader with an optional carbon-cannon. The finest in Russian engineering.”

  “And Ryfka’s lettin’ you have a go with it?”

  “Apparently.” Brandon pulled the weapon a hint closer to him. “She trusts me with it.”

  “Just handle that new friend of yours with care. It looks as if it packs a punch.” Bruce took in a deep breath, checked his Remington-Elliot one last time, then grinned. “Let’s pay these Houseboys a call, eh?”

  It had been a long time since Bruce had been down on his elbows and knees—at least in the field, on assignment. As it was under Cassandra’s leadership, Bruce recalled his soldiering days, not that he had enjoyed those very much either. To add to the misery, his soldiering days were under the Australian sun, a brutal ball of heat that he truly did not appreciate until crawling the first few yards forward in the Russian snow. A good fire, nice stout, and a steak—that’s what waited for him on his return to Old Blighty. Pausing, Bruce took a quick peek. Snow began to fall around them, an unexpected helping hand in concealing their crossing to the stronghold.

  A sudden grunt from his partner brought his progress to a halt. Through the thin veil of snowfall, Brandon’s eyes motioned towards the fortress and then he blinked intentionally three times. Bruce returned his gaze forward and noted a third guard emerging from the factory. That was going to make this simple infiltration a bit more complicated.

  Before he could move another inch, a vehicle rumbled somewhere in the shadows. Had to be a truck or perhaps a large transport of some kind. The House could hardly call in an airship with such dense forestation around here. Once the
three guards turned in the direction of the sound, Bruce gave a quick jerk of his neck to Brandon, and they increased the pace of their crawl.

  Just ten feet away from the door, they could hear some Houseboys discussing their day.

  “...and then I took off my boot, and damned if there was a hole in my sock.” The voice was a deep bass, but the accent was not Russian. Bruce could detect a definite East London edge to it, which was strange; mostly the House Directors were very territorial.

  “I thought you told her to darn it?” The second voice sounded American of all things.

  “But I hate socks after they’ve been mended. Bloody things are always in need of attention, you know? Needin’ all stitched up and such.”

  “Well, it’s that frontier spirit like in Colorado, isn’t it? You got to make do.”

  Like most jobs, being a part of the House had to be ninety-nine percent boredom.

  “Oye, Ivan—”

  “Iliad,” the third man spoke. He was Russian, but the accent could not hide the man’s annoyance. “I told you. My name—Iliad.”

  “Yeah, all right, Iliad,” the Bloke began, walking up to the Russian. This blighter really did have some balls as that Russian towered over him. “Go on and drive that contraption of yours back to the hangar. Think its test in the cold is a success, seein’ as its startin’ up there now, eh?”

  “Khorsho,” he replied flatly. “I will accompany Bear back to Cave.”

  “Khorsho,” he mimicked back, “you do tha’.”

  With the Russian lumbering away toward whatever was idling in the distance, Bruce felt that unwelcome tension ebb away. The odds for their polite infiltration were looking a lot better.

  “You don’t particularly care for our Russian brother, do you?” the American blurted out, causing Bruce to jump slightly.

  The Bloke went to answer, but paused as he stared in Bruce’s direction. “Don’t care for grease bears, is all.”

  “Now hold on there,” the American said, raising his hands slightly, “what’s with the slurs?”

  “Just don’t trust ‘em, is all,” he replied, his eyes still on where Bruce remained hidden.

  “I’m sure he feels the same way about you lagerheads.”

  He rounded on the American, slamming him back against the factory wall. “You watch it, mate!”

  “Easy there, my friend. We’re all one big happy Usher family now. Ragnarök, after all, depends on that, yes?”

  Bruce looked over to Brandon, jerked his head towards the Houseboys, and together they leapt up from the snow. The Bloke probably got a glance at the Thunder from Down Under just before it connected with his chin. Bruce could feel some give so he was pretty sure some teeth had been knocked out. His counter-punch sent the Bloke back, his head rapping hard enough against the factory to knock him out. The poor sod wouldn’t get cold as the American flopped across him moments later.

  “You all right there, mate?” Bruce asked Brandon, who was shaking his hand, flexing his fingers as he did so. “That Yank built a bit more solid than you thought?”

  “My speciality is knives, blades, anything with an edge. My fisticuffs needs work.”

  Slapping his partner on the shoulder, Bruce chuckled. “When we get back to Whiterock, I’ll give you a few pointers for toughening up those meathooks.” He grabbed the cuff of the American and lifted him up as if he were a weighted duffel bag. “Now, how about this lock?”

  Brandon rubbed his hands together and knelt by the door. Bruce reached down for the Bloke then paused. It was quiet again. He dared to step out into the small service road. No longer could he hear the gurgling of a massive engine. Iliad and the “Bear” were now in the safety of the “Cave,” wherever or whatever that was.

  Two quick whistles from the factory returned his attention back to his partner, now inside. Bruce lifted the Bloke up by the collar and dragged both unconscious guards across the threshold. The Bloke was a little heavier. Maybe the American was right about this one and his love for lager. “Got a place for these?”

  “We just might.”

  “Good,” he said, passing a limp body to Brandon. “Make sure there’s room for two.”

  Brandon cleaned out a coat closet, probably needed as watch shifts would come in from the outside or head out into the winter. He stuffed the now gagged, blindfolded, and bound American into it. “And we have enough room for his fellow.”

  “Good. Help me secure him.” Binding the ankles and wrists, Bruce and Brandon gently folded the Bloke’s legs and pressed him against the Yank. Even with hanging the coats back up, the wardrobe still managed to close. “What do you think?”

  Brandon gave a slight exhale and then looked at him. “About?”

  “How long, you think?” he asked, motioning to the wardrobe.

  “Well, I don’t know. I—look, this is more your expertise, mate.”

  “It’s not like you’ve never punched a bloke, come on,” insisted Bruce. “How hard did you hit him?”

  Brandon’s head bobbled between Bruce and the coat closet. “Forty minutes?” He then nodded. “Yes, without a doubt, forty minutes.”

  “Then let’s make this snappy,” Bruce said, drawing his pistol.

  After shedding their own coats, Bruce and Brandon continued into the factory, a thunk-thunk-thunk of machinery heard just over the drone of what Bruce could assume was a forge of some sort. Whatever they were making here, the end results must have been impressive.

  Brandon stopped suddenly checking the door in front of them. “This should be it, according to Ryfka.”

  “How’s the security?” he asked, motioning to the door.

  The Remington-Elliott felt heavier in Bruce’s grasp as Brandon’s jaw twitched. The doorknob was plain, and there appeared to be no keyhole in sight. The Canadian took hold of the knob, sucked in a deep breath, and turned it.

  The door creaked open. No alarms sounded.

  “Surprisingly light,” Brandon said.

  Swinging the door wider, the dimly-lit room was hardly anything to make one stop and gawk. “So if these Firebird feathers are all powerful,” Bruce began, closing the door behind them, “then how come there isn’t a detail on them?” He holstered his pistol. “And she sure does have a lot of access to this place. Why didn’t she go on and gather evidence on her own?”

  “Oh come off it, Bruce, you know what it is like to work undercover. She probably was denied access elsewhere. Considering her condition, she probably did not want to take unnecessary risks in being somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be.”

  “Mate, her ‘condition’ is not as debilitating as you’re insinuating. Body odour, pressure against floorboards, I guarantee ya’ she can take care of herself.”

  “There is still a risk,” Brandon continued. Bruce really wished he would stop. “She would look conspicuous being somewhere without proper authorisation.”

  She was deaf, not helpless. “Are you sure you’re reading that map right, Brandon?” he snapped.

  The dim room suddenly became awash with gold light. Bruce turned to find Brandon’s face illuminated by a deep amber glow emitting from an open box in front of him. “Oh, I’m quite certain.”

  Bruce came around to the crate Brandon was opening. It was the length of a peacock feather; however, it would never be mistaken as being from such a common bird. Peering down at it, Bruce was almost hypnotised by the gleaming gold that shimmered across its surface. The feather looked fragile. One wrong look and it would crack under the strain. Bruce could see, though, their treasure was pressing against the case’s glass top in such a way that it was secure. He took a measure of the case’s depth. There was more than one of these feathers here.

  “All right, then,” Bruce said, lowering the lid and returning the two of them to the near-darkness of the room, “we have what we came for. We’ll grab a couple of rifles from the ready room, spin a yarn to Ryfka that this is what’s coming off the assembly line here, then get the hell out of this winter wasteland.
”

  “I do not particularly care for fibbing to Ryfka.”

  “We’re not fibbing. We’re liberating the Houseboys of a few weapons, presenting them as evidence of dastardly going’s-on here, and sure as Aunt Fanny’s your Uncle Bob, she’ll get that raid. See? All good.”

  “Then you carry out the feathers while I provide cover.” Brandon removed the M1899 from his back holder. “It would be a shame to not take advantage of the local culture.”

  “Fair enough,” Bruce said, throwing the feather crate across his back. “Let’s get a move on, shall we?”

  They slipped back out into the hallway, the factory’s heart continuing to chug and churn. He checked his Mapping & Webb. It was 3 o’clock in the morning, and yet it sounded like operations were running full blast. Brandon silently led the way back to where they had left their slumbering guards. Bruce set the box down in order to slip his coat back on, but he only made it as far as one sleeve before he stopped and looked back to the innards of the factory.

  What were these weaselling bastards up to?

  “Bruce?” he heard his partner whisper evenly. “You need to put your other arm into the sleeve, pick up the feathers, and within two days we will be toasting to our suc—”

  “You said forty minutes, right?” Bruce asked, checking his wristwatch again.

  “Bruce...”

  “We still got twenty for sure,” he said, looking for a place within their small ready room. There were other boxes about, similar to theirs; but they couldn’t afford to have some Houseboy go on and open up their prize thinking it was a crate for rifles or sidearms. He glanced into the wardrobe. The Bloke and the Yank were still unconscious. There were the extra coats and what looked like artillery belts hanging from pegs, concealing them from view.

  And there was a small shelf just above the coats. Vacant, and out of average sight lines.

  “Bruce, have you taken a good look at where we are?”