The Ghost Rebellion

by Pip Ballantine, Tee Morris

  “You really can’t turn it off, can you?” Eliza said with a dark look as she casually thumbed through the case file of Nahush Kari.

  “After hiding in Bruges for so long, it feels good to be out in the open,” Sophia said, making no attempt whatsoever to mask her delight.

  “Yes, about your sudden return to polite society,” Maulik began, “might I ask what your next move is Miss del Morte? It is asylum you are seeking, yes?”

  “I am.”

  A bark of laughter made everyone turn to look at Eliza, her eyes still in the dossier. “If we grant her as much, then yes, I think we should all…” Her words trailed off as she pulled out a single photograph. “Where’s the æthermessenger we brought in from Featherstone’s?”

  “I believe it was taken straight to R&D,” Maulik replied.

  Eliza clutched the photo close to her as she sprinted for the stairs. Wellington pushed through his own weariness and tried to catch up with her. He was dimly aware of Sophia easily keeping pace with him. She might feign confidence, but obviously she didn’t want to be in a room with Maulik.

  However, right at this moment, Eliza was his main concern. Over the thunder of footsteps, he could just hear his partner whispering “No, no, no, no…” which did not instil confidence.

  The lone technician in R&D looked up from her clipboard, and Wellington could see the young Indian woman’s eyes were puffy and red. This must have been incredibly difficult to return to her office and find her associate had been killed-in-action, something unexpected for this division of the Ministry.

  “You were brought an æthermessenger,” Eliza barked out. “Where is it?”

  The girl closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. Eliza’s hands clenched at her side, a sure sign she was hanging onto her anger by the barest thread. Finally, the poor technician managed, “Yes, Agent Braun. We found your æthermessenger, but we could not salvage the internal memory as per requested.”

  “Why not?”

  “The memory had suffered some internal damage.”

  “Where is it?”

  The technician motioned to the opposite side of the room. Wellington, with Sophia trailing in his shadow, followed Eliza to the device which looked new at a glance, its metal fixtures catching the dim glow of the workshop. It wasn’t until Eliza turned it around that he saw the deep scratches and slight bending of metal along the back.

  “Vania tampered with it,” Eliza spat.

  “What?” Wellington asked. “How are you so certain of that?”

  “We found this at Featherstone’s, and it was pristine. Not a scratch or blemish on it. She must have pried one of these back panels loose to access its internal mechanics.”

  “Wait—Vania has a working proficiency with æthermessengers? The temporary memory block is hardly common knowledge.”

  “It is if I tell her,” Eliza seethed.

  “So you have another spy in your midst?” Sophia let out a little giggle. “The Ministry is always trying to be so clever, but it can never seem to keep those pesky double agents out.”

  “Are you sure you want to take that tone with me, at present?” Eliza warned.

  “Ladies.” Wellington shot a glance at Eliza. They stared at each other for a long moment before they both looked away. “Eliza, to sabotage an æthermessenger, you would have to know what systems to damage.”

  “Look around us, Wellington. There are Tesla Coils, magnetic devices, and right behind you a carbon arc welder. It wouldn’t take much skill or effort make a dog’s breakfast of the internals.”

  He looked over Eliza and Sophia at the clankerton now engrossed in her clipboard. His voice was but a whisper when he asked, “And how do you know the damage didn’t happen here? In R&D?”

  Eliza held up the photo she had pulled from Kari’s file. “This gentleman I met earlier today at Featherstone’s. According to Kari’s file, this chap is one of his lieutenants. He went missing at the same time as Kari. Vania had a bit of an argy–bargy with him while I was down, as well as a quick, little chat in Hindi. Something she knows I don’t. Coincidence, mate? Yeah-nah.”

  “Then as we are agreed,” Sophia said, the tense moment shattered as her voice was at full volume, “perhaps we can set about following this little double agent of yours. I am sure she has gone somewhere interesting where you don’t want her to go, and it seems you are rather short staffed. She’s already got a few minutes’ head start on us.”

  “We don’t need to worry about losing her,” Wellington said, holding up his hand and wiggling his Ministry ring. “She’s in the company of two other agents presently. They should be wearing these, but we don’t have much time.”

  “Where is my valise?” Sophia asked. “I had it sent here.”

  Eliza shook her head quickly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “If we are to find this double agent of yours in the streets of Bombay, then we should wear the proper fashions.” Sophia took off her hat and let her silky, dark locks fall behind her. “I have just the thing for this very moment.”

  Interlude

  In which the Mistress of Death Comes to the Ministry’s Rescue. Again.

  Sophia was not going to lie—it was a joy to be back in her own skin, doing what she loved, even if presently she was not working for a bounty of any sort. She absently wondered why she felt this sudden need to help the Ministry. She did not care about earning their trust, after all they still owed her for her help in London.

  As she strolled through the streets, dressed this time in a proper Englishwomen’s attire of a long, pale green dress, perky little feathered hat, and long cloak to protect her from the dust of the street, she smiled. It was about control. Something about setting on this girl’s trail reminded her of how much control she had when going undercover. This magnanimous gesture to the Ministry, this olive branch in exchange for their help, was part of her own reclaiming of that.

  “Remember,” that woman’s voiced cracked in her earpiece, “you are not to engage.”

  Hearing Eliza D Braun bark orders in her ear, though, also served as a reminder. It was a long and arduous journey ahead to regain that control. She would have to tread very carefully.

  Reaching up into her cowl, she tapped the small cup fitted around her left ear. “I have not forgotten. Now, if you wish me to remain in concealment, do be silent.”

  “Just know we are watching,” the agent warned.

  The ETS, a quaint device that was standard for the Ministry, has easily narrowed in on Pujari working her way through the dark streets of Bombay. On the small compass face that rendered a map of the city street, the tiny light representing the double agent continued on, assumingly in the company of her own fellows. Sophia would never admit this particular device from the Ministry impressed her. Secure frequencies, efficient yet compact and elegant in design, and effective in tracking agents either in trouble or, in the case of Miss Pujari, going rogue. The ETS came in quite handy…

  Provided the ring bearer remained unaware of it, she thought, noticing that Pujari had stopped in a side alleyway. Sophia had to double her pace.

  She had managed two street blocks before the narrow shape of Agent Vania Pujari emerged from an alleyway only a hundred feet in front of her. Sophia ducked into an alley of her own, slipping from her belt a small mirror that she used to seemingly check the condition of her make-up. Pujari’s reflection glanced up and down the busy street before adopting a quick stride through the crowd. If Sophia was any judge of people, the Indian agent looked perturbed, pushing between people rather than going around. She was not completely trained then, because the first rule of any covert activities was not to make waves. Hide in the shadows, disturb no one, and certainly don’t cause the population around you to yell at you. Sophia winced as Pujari forged on through a group of three men. They waved and screamed some rather rude words after her.

  Closing the compact, Sophia set on the woman’s heels. She was a shark following calmly behind a flapping, wounded seal. The yo
ung agent’s absence of finesse made her easy to follow, giving Sophia plenty of time to contemplate her situation. She glanced at the ETS tracker in her hand. The light which had represented Pujari remained still in the alleyway from where she had emerged.

  With her quarry still in eyesight, Sophia dared to tap her earpiece. “Follow Pujari’s tracker. I am afraid there you will find a pair of dead agents. Continuing my pursuit.”

  Once again, Wellington and his tedious New Zealand lover were beholden to her with this surveillance of their little double agent. The female was most certainly not going to like it—but that made this gesture all the sweeter. As always, her timing was impeccable. A del Morte trait.

  Up ahead was Victoria Terminus. It had still been under construction when she’d been here before, but even then she’d been able to tell it would be one of those grand, very English constructions; all spires and archways. The golden stone at least gave it some true Indian charm, and there were hints of the sub-continent in the domes at least. Sophia sighed a little as she continued towards it. If only the Italians had conquered India instead of the staid English, then at least they would have had some truly stylish architecture. However, Italy had been too busy sorting out its own problems while Britannia swallowed up all the treasures.

  Sophia followed the agent up the steps of the railway station, and into the terminus itself. It was like most ports of entry and departure around the world: thrumming with activity. Clusters of men and woman ebbed and flowed in the main foyer, staring up occasionally at the clatter of departure and arrival signs hanging from the ceiling. As it was in Bombay, the Victoria Terminus remained a hub of humanity even after the sun set. With night now upon India, there was still so much left to be done, destinations to undertake, and homes to return to.

  Within this throng, she worried for a moment that she had lost Pujari; but after a heartbeat, she spotted the agent over by the ticket counter. She was standing on the tips of her toes and scanning the crowd too.

  Not exactly covert, Sophia thought to herself. But then again, most of the Ministry is busy right now, I suppose.

  Picking up a newspaper from a little lad by the doorway, Sophia took a seat, and began her observation over the top of its carefully angled pages.

  Vania Pujari looked worried, there were no two ways about that. This was not a planned rendezvous, but more one thrust upon her. The Ministry were, on a whole, frightfully clever; their ability to tie Featherstone, Jekyll, and this Ghost Rebellion together in this grand scheme was a testament to how smart those in their ranks were, in particular Agents Books and Braun. Vania had just discovered first hand how formidable Wellington and his woman were. It must have been quite a shock. Sophia watched as the agent took in one final look around the terminus before walking towards a small tea shop to her right.

  The little café was a slice of London here in India, offering ridiculous white linens and delicate looking porcelain cups. What marred this illusion were its patrons. They were of different colours, different nations. A part of the same Empire? Hardly, Sophia noted from the disparaging glances from the tourists. New arrivals, their skin not touched yet by the Indian sun, perhaps ready to embark on an adventure, provided that adventure held little to no interactions with the uneducated natives.

  Sophia tipped her head down slightly. “Still watching me?”

  “Victoria Terminus sounds busy tonight,” Braun replied.

  “Never sleeps apparently.”

  “Is Vania leaving Bombay?”

  “I don’t believe so. At least, not yet.”

  Keeping her line of sight on her prey, Sophia folded up her paper and approached the café while Vania’s back was turned. Once her mark was shown to a table, Sophia waited a few beats before approaching the maître d’.

  “Something near the back,” she said, her voice dropping into an accent similar to Braun’s. She didn’t want to be too close to the skittish agent. All she needed was to be able to see her.

  “If that was your attempt at my accent,” Braun’s voice crackled in her ear, “you need to work on it.”

  Settling into a comfortable chair near the potted plants and the window, Sophia glanced out of the corner of her eye towards Vania. She had taken a spot further away, near the rumble of the crowd, probably to avoid being overheard. They were not the only ones seated alone, but the agent was not drinking. Another mistake. When her rather dashing waiter approached, his suit as immaculately white as the tablecloth, Sophia ordered Darjeeling and some cucumber sandwiches.

  “You hate tea,” Braun quipped.

  How did she know that? “Just becoming part of the scenery. I take it the signal is coming in clear.”

  If she had been her own self she would have flirted with the waiter. He had the gleam in his eye she always liked—always wanted to find out what it was backed up with. Instead, Sophia took her tea and the dismal sandwiches when he brought them.

  Vania did finally order something. Still, she was sitting on the edge of the chair, looking like a schoolgirl waiting on her first caller. The Ministry had been gutted by the Department of Imperial Inconveniences, Sophia supposed. Perhaps the rush of raw recruits had overwhelmed them. It would also explain their vulnerability. In light of Agent Case and Pujari, how many other double agents were hidden in their ranks?

  The man that approached Vania and took a seat opposite her was nothing like the photograph she had seen back at the Ministry Office. He was tall, handsome, and impeccably dressed in a sleek ensemble from Saville Row. His skin was flawless, his beard groomed in a most proper fashion, no signs of warfare, intrigue, or espionage about him. Propping up a glossy walking cane and a modest suitcase by their table, he took off his top hat and smiled, something Sophia would have never expected from Nahush Kari. He was paler than he appeared in his photographs, and his lighter skin coupled with his fine fashion allowed him to pass as a tanned Englishman, or perhaps a Greek.

  Sophia smiled, but covered it up with one gloved hand. That movement smoothly changed to adjusting the cloak’s collar, a modification of the listening device she had used in San Francisco. She had spent plenty of time in Bruges improving and adapting her travelling kit. There had been little else to do outside of gossiping and weaving, so improving her surveillance systems provided a delightful break from the monotony of Belgium.

  “Target has made contact with Kari,” Sophia muttered.

  “Nahush is there?” came Wellington’s voice this time.

  “Listen for yourself.”

  Now, with the modified earpiece she wore, both she and the Ministry were able to hear what was about to pass between Vania and Nahush.

  His voice, when it crackled in her ear, was smooth, deliciously deep, and marked with the polished accent of one well-educated. “Why so surprised, Vania? Were you expecting the brave freedom fighter with sword in hand?”

  Vania almost glanced over her shoulder, but caught herself. She gave a little shrug. “I guess...perhaps.”

  Both of them broke off when a waiter approached with tea, and two teacups.

  Nahush ordered cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches as the waiter poured. When they were alone again, he reached across and boldly took Vania’s hand. “It wouldn’t hurt if we appeared like a courting couple.”

  Sophia pressed her lips together, lest a chuckle escape her. Considering how handsome he looked at present, playing such a part opposite Nahush would not be difficult.

  Vania did not snatch her hand away, but merely nodded. They waited until the waiter returned with the tea setting.

  “Most English food is appalling,” he commented before taking a bite of a sandwich, “but I fell in love with these while at Oxford. The ones here? Unparalleled.”

  “Are we going to sit here talking nonsense?” Vania’s back was so straight it looked close to snapping. “When were you going to tell me of your collaboration with Jekyll?”

  He did not reply. Sophia flexed her wrist, arming her cog-gauntlet. The woman was sitting acros
s from the most wanted man in India, and after today all of the British Empire; she questioned him as if he were a lowly recruit. “I was unaware you had been promoted to the ranks of my inner-circle,” he returned.

  Vania leaned forward. “That was not an æthergate today...that was the thing that,” in profile Sophia could observe the twist in the woman’s face, “killed my sister.”

  “The electroporter didn’t kill your sister,” Nahush said calmly. “Hanging from under a London bridge did that. Her involvements with the English did that. The electroporter is merely a tool that we need.” Vania went to speak, but Nahush held up a hand. “We made a deal with Jekyll, and so far we have the results we desire.”

  “Jekyll is using you—using us—to get to Jal Mahal. We have been part of a grand confidence scheme of this doctor’s making.”

  “If you think I am bringing this Englishman close to my breast as a brother, I am not. I am, however, a man of my word.”

  For a moment it looked as though Vania might stand and leave. She jerked her chin up and tensed, but his hand caught the crook of her arm. If they were not careful they would start causing a scene.

  Sophia drained her teacup just in case she had to make a dash for it.

  “Don’t trust him,” Vania said, her voice low and pained. “Don’t trust any of them.”

  “I never do.” Sophia saw Nahush’s hand tighten on her arm, then he slowly released her. “Now, please, before you attract attention to us…”

  Vania eased back into her chair, relaxed, adopting the semblance of a woman forgiving her lover. “I can no longer stall the investigation. The Ministry has connected Featherstone and the æthergates, Jekyll to the electroporter, and the Ghost Rebellion to it all.”

  Nahush gave her a nod and then took a sip of tea. “Then our hand is forced, and I need your assistance. I cannot trust anyone else with it.”

  Those were the words that would melt any woman’s resistance; Sophia knew that from some harsh experiences of late. Vania shifted in her chair, but stayed put. “What is it?”