The Ghost Rebellion

by Pip Ballantine, Tee Morris

  “Pull your people out of this junction, and I will gladly hold an audience with you.”

  Time crawled by. Nahush Kari was the kind of gentleman, apparently, who did not believe in giving any quarter to an opponent. “Come along,” Wellington whispered, “how badly do you want this audience?”

  The revolutionaries holding the junction across from them pulled back their weapons, and disappeared from view.

  “Ready when you are, Mister Books,” Nahush called.

  “When you find a moment to get to that junction, Director,” Wellington said, “do not hesitate.”

  “Are you seriously going off to entertain this known anarchist?” Maulik asked.

  “I am a gentleman. I keep my word.”

  “You are gallant to the point of stupidity, Welly, do you know that?” Eliza snapped, locking her hand on his wrist. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Really?” he asked. “You think you are just going to saunter along with me, up to the leader of the Ghost Rebellion?”

  “Actually,” Sophia said, “Eliza will be to your right. I will be to your left.”

  “Now just a moment—” Wellington protested.

  “Books,” Maulik interrupted, “Kari is waiting.”

  His eyes jumped between Eliza and Sophia. For two women who loathed one another, they really were two peas in a pod. Quite insufferable.

  With a final glance over his suit, just to make sure he was presentable, Wellington looked over their small number, tipped his bowler to them, and then started across the courtyard.

  “What’s your plan, Welly?” Eliza said, holstering her pistols.

  “Working on one,” he replied.

  “Quite quickly, I hope,” Sophia muttered.

  The three of them remained quiet as they closed their distance with Nahush and his army. Wellington reached into his coat pocket and produced one of his announcement cards. Holding it between two fingers, he presented it to one of the most wanted men in the Empire.

  “How civilised,” Nahush said, holding up Wellington’s card.

  “Nahush Kari,” Wellington said, clearing his throat and elevating his chin slightly, “I suppose there is no way I, as an appointed agent of Her Majesty the Queen of England and Empress of India, could convince you to surrender peacefully?”

  “Let me see now,” he said, tapping the announcement card in his open palm. “On account of the electroporter I have the English outnumbered four to one…”

  “Well done, that.”

  “Thank you. I was rather proud of that tactic myself.” When Nahush smiled, Wellington thought it suited him. “So, considering the circumstances, I think not.”

  “Right then.” He glanced to either side of him, both ladies looking at him in anticipation. “So much for Plan A.”

  “That,” Sophia whispered, “was your plan?”

  “Keeping it simple,” he replied. “Sometimes, simplicity is the best plan.”

  “I am siding emphatically with the Italian on this one,” Eliza said with an angry shake of her head.

  “Please,” Nahush implored softly, “stop.”

  “I am hoping you and I can reach a peaceful resolution to this. We are, after all, part of the Empire,” Wellington insisted.

  Nahush’s eyebrows rose. “You truly believe that? Even when you see how we are segregated in our own country, exploited for our resources, and repeatedly denied our own culture and prosperity, you still believe we are all part of some glorious utopia?” He closed in on Wellington, staring deep into his eyes.

  Wellington found it difficult to hold the soldier’s gaze. He believed in the idea. The reality was very different.

  “So I thought,” Nahush said.

  “Is that why you betrayed the Ministry then?” Eliza, her voice carrying an edge as sharp as one of Sophia’s blades, asked Vania. “Your friends, your colleagues, did you think of their families when you planned on killing them?”

  “No more than the Ministry thought of mine,” she replied, her voice low but angry.

  “Hard to know what Ihita would say, considering—”

  “She wanted what I want—a free India.”

  Wellington was trying desperately to keep his attention on Nahush and Vania, but something beyond the obvious was very wrong. The Ghost Rebellion, as Nahush had successfully done, held a clear advantage.

  “So what exactly are you waiting for?” Sophia blurted out. The tirade between Eliza and Vania stopped abruptly. Nahush kept his own gaze fixed on Wellington as she continued. “You’re here. We’re here. Can we just move things along?”

  “You could have gunned us down without a fuss after you arrived,” Wellington stated, “but instead you call for an audience?”

  Eliza looked to Vania, then to Nahush. “And we’ve been posturing like peacocks. Why?”

  Movement from behind the ranks stole Wellington’s gaze from Nahush. Four soldiers, armed only with large jugs, appeared from the open corridors of the Water Palace. He could see inside the containers gallons upon gallons of water sloshing back and forth.

  Then came the slight man in their wake, dressed in a fashion proper for India. Linen suit. Pith helmet. High boots. Tinted spectacles that stood out in stark contrast against his own pale skin. In each of his hands he carried two sturdy cases. Wellington recognised them at a glance from his time collecting insects. They were designed for delicate work in collecting specimens, be those specimens fauna or floral.

  “Oh, look at you,” Dr Henry Jekyll gasped. “Even with our little dust-ups these recent years, we have been ships in the night. I never expected to see you again.”

  Wellington had only seen the good doctor from a distance—through the lenses of binoculars. Now, this close, a memory rushed towards him. He was just a boy, but he didn’t like Uncle Henry. He especially did not like Uncle Henry when he smiled. His father always told him that this man would be his best friend. Yet every time Jekyll came to visit, he would place a tight grip on Wellington’s shoulder. So tight, it scared him; but she was always there to intervene.

  His mother’s eyes would always follow Uncle Henry.

  “Little Wellington,” Jekyll said gleefully, “all grown up.” Perhaps what stunned Wellington more than the vivid recollections of his childhood was how Doctor Henry Jekyll looked presently. It was as if his memory had come to life. Somehow Jekyll had avoided the touch of age. “It has been some time, hasn’t it?”

  “I—” Wellington cleared his throat, hoping that would make his words sound less faltering. “I would not forget you no matter how many years have passed, Doctor.”

  “Doctor? Not Uncle Henry?”

  Every instinct inside Wellington was now begging for him to run. A bullet in the back was preferable to talking with this monster.

  “Perhaps we should start with formalities and work our way back to familiarities,” Wellington said, even as Eliza draw a little closer to his side.

  “Very well,” Jekyll said with a shrug. “We will not be taking up too much of the Queen’s valuable time. Speaking of which, how is my royal patient?”

  “Better,” Eliza said with a dark frown, “now that you are no longer tending to her.”

  Jekyll crooked an eyebrow as his eyes turned to her, and Wellington’s hand itched for a weapon. The flight instinct was now replaced with a hard, deep-seated urge to protect.

  “We have not formerly met, have we?” He looked her over, and then said, “Henry Jekyll, doctor, physician, and atypical mad scientist.”

  Eliza nodded. “Eliza Braun. Agent of the Ministry, proud daughter of New Zealand, and regretful I did not place that tracer bullet between your eyes.”

  “Oh, that was you? Excellent shooting.”

  “This is why no one has fired a single shot,” Wellington said, turning to Nahush. “Jekyll wanted to see me?”

  “Well actually,” Jekyll spoke before Nahush could answer, “I wanted to extend to you an invitation to join me.”

  “What?” came Wellingt
on, Nahush, and Eliza, all at once.

  “Oh dear,” he groaned, “so dramatic.”

  “This was not what we agreed to,” Nahush insisted. “You wanted me to bring you here for your precious flowers and water. Bringing this Englishman back was not part of the bargain.”

  “Nahush, old chap,” Jekyll said, “you wanted an advantage in today’s fight, and I believe I delivered what you wanted with great aplomb. Consider this a tip of the hat for a job well done.”

  “And what makes you think I will surrender to you without a fight?” Wellington asked.

  Jekyll wore that smile Wellington remembered from his childhood, from terrible dreams he was now uncertain if they were merely dreams or something far worse. “Wellington, my boy, the choice is not yours to make.”

  “So, even if I were to ask in exchange for me, safe passage for the ladies and those with us?”

  “I would guarantee it,” Jekyll said, “but Nahush would be the one with a final say in the matter.”

  Sophia’s blade caught the light for just an instant. The blade, a gear with its cogs filed down to a fine edge, sliced cleanly into Vania’s hand, embedding itself into her flesh. The distraction of her howl and her crashing into Nahush was enough room for Wellington to charge the soldier closest to him.

  The distraction also gave Eliza a moment to slip up to Jekyll and bring her knee square into the good doctor’s crotch.

  Gunfire rippled through the air, the Imperial forces and the Ghost Rebellion exchanging volleys as Wellington fell to the ground, wrestling the rifle out of the soldier’s grasp. He shoved the fine wooden butt of the rifle into the man’s face then quickly rolled to one side, firing round upon round in quick succession. He wouldn’t know exactly how many he would manage before someone would take him out, but he was determined to take down as many as he could.

  Something thrummed in his ears and rippled across his back. The concussion wave knocked a handful of soldiers in every direction. Wellington pulled himself up to one knee and cast a quick glance back to the train. A Ministry agent, her blonde hair still tossing in the breeze and armed with what had to be a Mule’s Kick, was braced against the Training Car’s ramp. Bravery was never in short supply with the Ministry.

  A pair of hands grabbed Wellington under the arms and hoisted him to his feet. “We move,” came the command, draped in a rich Italian accent, “now!”

  “Bloody brilliant, taking a shot at Vania,” he gasped as he followed on Sophia’s heels to the outer wall.

  “I was going to kill Jekyll,” she snapped, “but too many eyes were watching. That was when I realised no one was paying attention to that irritating Vania woman.”

  “I didn’t even consider that.” He then looked around them, and grabbed hold of her jacket, spinning her to face him. “Where’s Eliza?”

  Sophia motioned with her head in the direction from where they had come. “I never interrupt a lady when she is enjoying herself.”

  Wellington’s eyes went wide as he saw what she meant. Eliza was demanding Jekyll’s full attention, spinning on one foot, her boot connecting—rather soundly—with the mad doctor’s jaw. She stopped in her assault and said something to him, but from where they had taken shelter and the surrounding gunfire he could not make out exactly what.

  The rifle came up to his shoulder, but then paused as he looked at Jekyll. “Sophia, give me a pistol.”

  “I beg your pardon? We are in the middle of—”

  His tenor, he knew, could not have been more than a whisper, but she heard every word. “Dammit, give me a sidearm.”

  Sophia’s lips pressed together.

  “Please,” he said as calmly as possible.

  Her eyes narrowed as she flipped open a pouch on her belt. “Can you do this, Wellington?”

  “He’s turning,” Wellington said, looking over the contraption that Sophia offered him. “I suppose we will find out.”

  The odd device looked appropriate for the assassin. At a glance, the weapon appeared as a set of knuckle dusters, but on closer inspection, folded within it, was a rudimentary blade and a detachable cylinder. He extended the knuckles fully, and quickly evaluated the pistol’s balance. Crude, low calibre, but it would have to do. He now had six shots along with what was left in the rifle.

  “Make every one count,” Sophia said as if addressing a schoolboy.

  “Always,” Wellington replied.

  I’m coming, Eliza, he thought as he stepped out of hiding, and into the mouth of madness.

  Interlude

  Wherein Bruce and Ryfka Make a Friend

  Just stay with me, Ryfka.

  It had become Bruce’s mantra since abandoning the truck. He had not stopped until the sun was up and the boilers were depleted. With the dashboard completely shorted out, there was no telling how close they were to the extraction point. Łódź could be just around the corner. It could be another day’s travel. It was impossible to tell, but he had hoped for the former rather than the latter. They had been on the move for well over thirty hours, as far as Bruce could estimate. In the mad escape from Mama Bear’s Cave, he had forgotten to wind his wristwatch.

  Ryfka had been patched up as best as Bruce could manage, using snow to clean the wound and bits of the truck’s canopy to bandage it. She needed stitches. She needed a clean dressing. She needed a proper doctor. Bruce had done what he could, and in the back of his mind, he knew it wasn’t enough.

  What…are you…doing, Bruce? Ryfka asked, her signing an effort akin to mountain climbing.

  “We are not having this conversation again,” Bruce both spoke aloud as well as signed. He couldn’t be certain what she was able to see through exhausted eyes. Her complexion matched that of the snow as well. He just had to get her to the extraction point. “I am seeing this mission through, and I will not take any losses. Ya follow?”

  Her head lolled from one side to the next. “Stubborn,” she managed in an affected speech.

  Bruce hoisted her up, managing a groan out of her. “Yeah, one of my more endearing qualities.”

  They pushed on through the thicket of trees, fallen branches cracking and snapping underfoot. A few yards ahead, though, Bruce noticed the trees were thinning out. A field was about to open up before them. Blessing or curse, Bruce wouldn’t know until they got there.

  “Ryfka, we’re about to lose our cover,” he said, stopping just short of the forest’s edge. He peered through the barren branches. “There’s a farmhouse up there. They might have something for you. Shall we give it a go?”

  Ryfka looked up at him. Your mission. Your call.

  He chuckled. “That’s got to hurt, admitting that.”

  She furrowed her brow. Poor choice of words. Then she managed a wry grin, and signed, Mate.

  Bruce nodded, and led her around the perimeter of trees to the farmhouse. With a glance to Ryfka, the two of them broke clear of the forest and hobbled over to the modest structure. The doors were secured with a lock. A lock Brandon could easily pick, but for Bruce? What he wouldn’t give for a sidearm of any description.

  “Wait a minute,” he whispered, staring at the padlock.

  The lock, the longer he looked at it, was a reminder of where he was. Welded and forged into it were buttons and gauges of all kinds. It appeared to be a pressure lock, albeit not one as sophisticated as you would find in Pommy-land but the same principle.

  Bruce tapped Ryfka on her good shoulder, snapping her awake. “Do you still have the Remington-Elliot on you?” he asked her.

  Ryfka motioned with her head to her pocket where Bruce fished out the pistol. Cracking the small weapon open, he pried out one of the spent shells. “This just might work.”

  He took the open end of the bullet casing and worked it between his teeth, folding the thin brass once then twice, making what appeared to be a less-than-precise lock pick. Ryfka watched as Bruce continued to work the metal as best as he could until finally the casing resembled nothing more than a crude nail.

 
That, she signed, will never crack the lock.

  Bruce carried her to the other side of the barn and gently set her down. “Who said I was going to crack it?” he asked her, winking before heading back to the barn doors.

  The sun was about to set. Extraction had to be closing in, and what he was about to attempt would either be a waste of time, or attract the attention of whomever lived here.

  “Here we go,” Bruce muttered as he jammed the ragged pick into the keyhole.

  He waited for a few seconds, and then noticed one of its two gauges jitter. The needle was trying to accurately read pressure but couldn’t quite understand if the lock was being tampered with, or if there was an actual key. For more sophisticated pressure locks, there were safeguards against what Bruce was doing. As this was a schlockwork’s approach to security, he was banking on this sort of reaction.

  He whipped back around to where Ryfka was trying to breathe through her pain. Seconds later, a loud crack like that of a bullwhip’s strike echoed into the oncoming dusk. Bruce peeked around the barn to see a small mist of smoke around the padlock, now hanging useless on the chain.

  “I’ll have to pass this story on to Brandon,” he said to himself, lifting Ryfka back to her feet.

  His gaze went from left to right. Someone would be coming, for certain. Even in the case of one as homemade as this, a pressure lock would not be used to keep simple farm equipment in check. This bloke had something in there he wanted to keep under heavy guard. The door rumbled off to one side, and in the dim light coming into the barn, Bruce could make out a workbench and several mechanical creations of various sizes and shapes. These technological curiosities had been all cobbled together from appliances, tools, and devices never meant for cobbling together. Bruce could see clearly an automaton wheat thrasher. The scythe was expertly welded into a chassis that connected to a small steam engine. From the looks of the various axels and cogs, the scythe would make easy work of several acres. The engine also appeared to be connected to treads similar to their truck’s, and behind all of this was a place for a driver.

  “That’s bloody clever,” Bruce muttered as he dragged Ryfka to the workbench.