The Ghost Rebellion

by Pip Ballantine, Tee Morris

  Bruce looked back over to Brandon. Nothing. Still staring forward. He was really taking this method to heart.

  “Now just a moment, Mama B,” Bruce said, trying to keep calm. “My silent partner and I are just curious travellers, that’s all. Those who employ us—”

  “—will know to stay clear of Usher business,” she said as she raised the pistol.

  “You really are thick,” a voice from behind Bruce stated.

  Bruce was on the verge of soiling his trousers, and Brandon just throws the gauntlet down like that? He’s finally cracked, Bruce thought as he looked back to his partner.

  Brandon’s expression was as menacing as Mama Bear’s. He remained fixed on the babushka, his smile confident, his outward demeanour that of one completely and utterly in command of what was a completely-out-of-control scenario.

  “Fine,” Mama Bear conceded. “I shoot you first.”

  “Kill us,” Brandon said, “and you commit your operation here to a full-scale assault from our replacements.”

  The Remington-Elliott lowered slightly. “And why would your replacements mount full assault? They know nothing.”

  “They know about Ragnarök,” he insisted.

  “Goddammit, Brandon, “ Bruce blurted out, “now they know why we are really here! If you had just given me a few more minutes—”

  “Bruce, I know you wanted to handle this without heavy loss of life, but we’ve got no choice in the matter. We’ve tried solving it your way. Now we let Her Majesty’s military handle it.”

  Mama Bear tossed the pistol to Iliad and then slipped out of her chair to stand between the two men. “So you are British military, after all.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Brandon stated. “We’re independent contractors from the Department of Imperial Inconveniences. Some of my connections in the higher ranks got wind of Ragnarök and sent us in for confirmation. We have, depending on the last time I consulted a timepiece, twelve hours before we are counted as overdue. Once that happens, you call down the might of the Imperial Army on this location.”

  “You have seen what we are doing here, yes?”

  “And you know full well what our military is capable of when properly motivated.”

  Bruce nodded. “Rest assured, Mama B, if the military is willing to send in blokes like us, the reputation of the Department as it is, Her Majesty is properly motivated.”

  She looked at the two of them for a moment, and then barked something in Russian. Iliad and one of their cell guards grabbed the corpses and dragged them out into the corridor as Mama Bear dealt orders to the remaining man. Once the guard snapped her a salute, she turned to face them again.

  “Then I have twelve hours to decide what to do with you,” she said evenly. “My initial option perhaps brings on more problems. We shall see, yes?”

  She spared one final look to each of them, and then turned to follow the other two guards. Bruce shot Brandon a hot, angry look, but then loosed a wink. They had just bought themselves time.

  With a deep breath, Bruce resumed his own casing of the room. Not much different from before, except now for the presence of a tea trolley. He craned his neck to look at the window behind them. No snowfall. It looked as if the sky cleared up as there was moonlight coming in and falling on Brandon’s hands.

  He looked back towards the window again. Clear night. Moonlight.

  From the talk with Mama Bear, the Houseboy’s primary language was Russian. Maybe he knew enough English, though, to make the next part of his plan work.

  “You know French, German, and even Spanish,” Bruce chuckled, “and you’re still wanting more?”

  Brandon blinked. “Come again?”

  “You’re wanting to learn sign language. You deserve a hand. I mean, that’s good of you, mate. ”

  “Be quiet,” their guard barked.

  Bruce looked over to Brandon. “Got to hand it to ya.” Brandon’s brow furrowed. “Knowing sign language? It’s going to come in quite handy.”

  “QUIET,” the guard snapped.

  Bruce kept his gaze with Brandon. Then he watched his partner’s brow relax and his eyes go to Bruce’s bound hands.

  One. Guard.

  On the second time signing this, Brandon mimicked the gestures with his own bound hands.

  Watch. Door.

  “What if I don’t want to be quiet?” Bruce asked.

  The guard stomped in front of Bruce. “Mama Bear want you alive. Mama Bear do not care if you are injured.”

  “Really?” Bruce barked out a laugh. “Brave man, talkin’ to a guy all tied up.”

  “You forget,” he said, lifting up his M1891, “I also have gun. Does not make me brave.” The guard then swung the rifle butt around, clocking Bruce in the temple. “Does make me in charge.”

  Bruce blinked, trying to ignore the stars merrily dancing in front of him. “Good on you, mate.”

  The guard snorted, then took a few steps towards Brandon. “You have anything to say?”

  Glass shattered, and the guard’s head snapped back. A single bullet to the brow, and she had even compensated for trajectory through tempered glass.

  Brandon, after a moment, said, “I do. Cracking shot, Ryfka is.”

  Bruce twisted in his chair, turning his own binds towards Brandon. “Right then, work on these knots for me, would ya?” He heard the grinding of metal against concrete, and then felt fingers start to work against the knots out of his reach. “Since we have a moment, what the hell were you all on about?”

  “What? Ragnarök, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not a bloody clue. It was something that Yank said just before we jumped him and his mate. ‘We’re all one big happy Usher family now. Ragnarök, after all, depends on that, yes?’ I’m thinking this is what Usher is up to here.”

  “That explains why there was little to no security on them Firebird feathers. Not sure if them feathers are part of the plan.” Bruce felt his rope slacken, and then he was free. “It’s all about those tanks.”

  “I’m still trying to understand what it was we saw. Tanks are unstoppable, after all, so why reinvent the wheel?”

  “Tanks are unstoppable monsters on the battlefield,” Bruce began, freeing his ankles, “but what about the terrain around here? Those treads and all that metal they’re carrying wouldn’t fare so well.”

  “Build something that can climb, that can manage steep vertical inclines.”

  “Those Bears would do quite well for themselves in cold, mountainous regions.” Once free, Bruce kicked aside his chair and started on Brandon’s bonds. “Russia. Germany. Parts of Spain.”

  “Blimey,” Brandon whispered. “They could revolutionise war with technology like that.”

  “But what was it you said—one big happy Usher family now? Something tells me these Bears are only part of this Ragnarök.”

  Once Brandon’s wrists were freed, Bruce stepped into the moonlight. Amazing shot, Ryfka, he signed. We’re making our way back to the east entry point. Meet us there. Urgent.

  With Brandon back on his feet, Bruce motioned to the dead guard. “What do you think?”

  “Come on, look at those shoulders,” Brandon said.

  “Right then,” he grumbled, taking his own coat off, “since I can’t do any sort of Russian accent to save our lives, and yeah, I mean that literally, I think you should be responsible for any sort of cover story, if we get stopped.”

  “How’s this for a cover story? I lead with a punch and you shoot anyone else who happens to be there?”

  Bruce slipped into the Houseboy’s long black coat, and hefted the M1891. He took the offered munitions belt from Brandon, and passed the rife to him. “I like the sound of that cover story.”

  “The coat should suffice,” Brandon said. He returned the rifle, along with a wide, black scarf. “Try to conceal that ridiculous jawline of yours.”

  “I’ll have you know,” Bruce began, tightening his fist around the thick scarf, “tha
t this is a good, solid Australian profile I have. It’s a trademark of the country.”

  “Unfortunate we’re in Russia at the moment then,” his partner quipped. He pushed back the folds of Bruce’s coat, and found in one of his belt’s pouches a series of long, thin instruments probably used in maintenance for the rifle’s scope. “Now give me a few minutes with this lock, and then we’re getting out of here.”

  “East entry point. Ryfka’s meeting us there.”

  “What?” Brandon asked, nearly dropping his makeshift picks. “Are you mad? We need to find the closest exit.”

  “Nah, mate, we meet Ryfka at the east entrance.” Bruce tightened the grip on the M1891. “Mission parameters have changed.”

  Chapter Twelve

  In Which Our Intrepid Agents Enjoy a Most Extraordinary Train

  Standing on the private platform, wreathed in steam on this warm evening, Eliza counted the number of carriages, while Wellington disappeared to examine the working end of things. This was her second stroll along the impressive locomotive belonging to the Indian Office of the Ministry. It was not a hypersteam, but she somehow felt there was an incredible power in this train. Something not only about the engine but the cars had a unique design to them. In particular, the car directly behind the coal car. That particular segment was twice the length of a normal car, and it seemed—somehow—to be floating.

  “My, my, so many handsome men—and in uniform too,” Sophia said, her tone resembling a hungry purr.

  Eliza tried not to think of the assassin standing behind her; that would only make her back itch. In normal circumstances, she would keep Sophia well within eyesight. So far, this operation had been nothing but odd and unpredictable, even for the Ministry. They originally came to India on the hunt for Henry Jekyll. An æthergate, an electroporter, and a double agent later, she was about to bring to justice a group of rebels comprised of those listed as missing or dead, who might or might not be completely in this world. She had seen a grand number of fantastic things in her time with the Ministry, but this case felt like a perfect storm of insanity.

  Out of the corner of her eye she observed Sophia move to stand next to her, looking over the impressive locomotive from end to end. Eliza cast her gaze downward to the two suitcases flanking the assassin. “For someone on the run, you’re hardly travelling light.”

  “India provided me an opportunity to replenish my wardrobe,” Sophia returned. “And resupply myself with a few necessary sundries.”

  Eliza nodded. “Excellent. Then as you have been on the run, carrying your own luggage won’t seem out of the ordinary.” Sophia’s expression hardened and that was a reward in itself. “Best get yourself settled then.”

  Her companion did not reply. Straight away. A devilish gleam accompanied her smile. “It is London all over again, isn’t it?”

  “Could be.”

  Sophia took stock of her suitcases, then said, “On this mission, I will tend to my own fashion. I prefer not to have my movements monitored once we part company. A valiant attempt though, Miss Braun.”

  So that’s how the Ministry lost Sophia’s signal in Cologne, she thought. Granted, with the Diamond Jubilee and the Maestro’s mayhem unfolding around them, planting that particular tracker had not been her best work.

  It was then Eliza realized she was clenching her jaw, a sure sign that things might go badly this time out. She felt skittish, off somehow. Like she didn’t know which way to jump, and it wasn’t just the presence of the Italian assassin.

  She watched O’Neil and his men at the “floating” car loading weapons and supplies. Maulik, on joining them at the Victoria Terminus, had informed them this was not to be solely a Ministry mission. Alongside twenty of their agents, a full platoon under O’Neil’s command would be joining them. By their set expressions they were men after vengeance.

  Wellington returned, shaking his head. “I admire Maulik’s transport here, but a private train seems very…impractical. The length of the engine is absurdly long. Longer than a hypersteam. Utterly ridiculous.”

  “Oh, Wellington,” she heard Maulik say, “you cut me to the quick.”

  Emerging from the clouds of vapour, Maulik joined the two of them, and that was when they noted his chair seemed larger than the one he had been using since their arrival. Then Eliza could see housed in the chair’s arms a set of Gatlings. Everyone appeared armed, armoured, and hungry for battle.

  “Trains are the very best way to keep a low profile in this country. Airships, while faster, attract far too much attention,” he pointed out.

  “And Gatling guns in the armrests?” Eliza asked. “That also the best way to keep a low profile and not attract attention to yourself?”

  “Oh no, this is my personal statement to the opposition. So, with a double agent already en route, two days to reach our location, and picking up a few more agents along the way, we should get moving.”

  “Has the Ministry enabled sufficient delays so that we might catch up with Vania?” Wellington asked.

  “Yes, we considered that, but there’s a problem. Vania is well versed in our procedures. She would notice any kind of manipulation like that,” Maulik nodded, but then he added cheerily, “so we will rely on the next best thing.”

  Sophia crooked an eyebrow. “Which is?”

  “The efficiency of the Great Southern India Railway Company, which is slowly transitioning to the control of the Indian government.”

  “Ah,” Wellington said, nodding. “Say no more.”

  Eliza patted his hand, and led the way onto the train. She did not even look at Sophia. “Come along then.”

  “Yes,” Maulik said, rolling on to a platform. “Meet me in the Strategy Room.” The platform slowly lifted the director up towards the car as Wellington and Eliza ascended its steps. Sophia was a few feet behind them, struggling with her luggage, much to Eliza’s amusement. “That’s the one to my left,” he added.

  This carriage was all set up for business—that much was immediately apparent—as there were few seats set in the walls. Oddly, these seats came equipped with harnesses. Perhaps, as this was a train designed for operations, they expected rough travels. That must have been why this car only had four windows. Seeing the size of them, they were less for enjoying the view and more for allowing limited light into the car. Most of the wall space was covered in maps of India and images of the Ghost Rebellion ringleaders. The centre of the carriage was dominated by a large brass periscope.

  Naturally, Wellington gravitated to it.

  Eliza turned to Maulik. “So, this is the Strategy Room. What is the larger car forward of us?”

  “The Training Carriage,” the director said, his pride quite evident. “A real accomplishment on the part of R&D. It is our mobile training facility. It can be converted from a modest shooting range to an obstacle course to an open sparring centre.”

  Sophia dropped her cases. “On a moving train?”

  “That’s the ingenious part. The car is actually kept steady on its truss through high-powered magnets. The field actually dampens the inertia transferred to the car, stabilising it as if it is standing still.”

  “But wouldn’t the magnetic field throw bullet trajectory?”

  “An excellent observation, Miss del Morte. R&D lined the bottom of the car with a compound that deflects the magnetic field. The power is concentrated on keeping the car steady, which is what we need, after all. I’m hoping to see if our Ministry agents will take on Kalaripayattu on this mission. This particular style is from the Northern region, and it would be wonderful, Wellington, if you could join us. The evasions and jumps have an elegance about them—”

  “No, thank you, sir,” Wellington replied quickly. Eliza glanced over her shoulder. He was busy moving dials, and peering through the periscope. A good gadget, that was all it really took to pique his interest, or at least that was what he was trying to convey. “That will not be necessary.”

  “Oh…what a shame,” Maulik rolled forward
towards the opposite door. “Then let me show you all to your berths.”

  The director led the way down the train. They still haven’t started moving yet, but through the soles of her feet Eliza could feel the engine start to chug faster. It wouldn’t be long now.

  “Here you are, Miss del Morte,” Maulik said, stopping at one cabin. A tight fit, even for one. “I hope you find it to your liking.”

  Sophia slid into the cabin and looked about. “Hardly the Ritz…but I’ll manage.”

  “Excellent,” he said, watching her move around her luggage in the tight space. “And now to you two. I hope you don’t mind sharing with Wellington, Eliza. Quarters are tight after all, what with the military joining us.”

  “Sir,” Wellington said, “what of our things? We did not have time—”

  “Oh, not to worry, I called for your things and had them brought to your cabin.” The huff took Maulik’s attention from them to Sophia. “A benefit in serving the Ministry, my dear.”

  They continued deeper into the passenger car, stopping at a cabin door identical to Sophia’s. Maulik slid open the door revealing a cabin twice the size of the assassin’s. It was still a tight fit but it was hardly the cramped berth Sophia was settling into with her suitcases.

  “We had this room designated for visiting dignitaries, so I thought it would be appropriate for you two.” He gave a gentle tap to Eliza’s forearm. “Get some rest. Breakfast will be served at eight, two cars up. Follow your nose.”

  Casting a quick glance at them both, Maulik continued deeper into the train. On account of his mask and the artificial reproduction of his voice, Eliza could not tell how the director felt about this mission. Returning to her own comparison of this visit to India as a perfect storm of calamity, Maulik had to be at his wit’s end. There was Vania. There was the Ghost Rebellion. And there was Jekyll. He had seen Jekyll for the monster he truly was. He had faced him once at the Water Palace, and then faced his creation inside St Paul’s Cathedral in London. The first encounter had left an impression on him while the other sentenced him to a wheelchair. Whatever was running through the director’s mind remained a secret, but it couldn’t be pleasant.