The Ghost Rebellion

by Pip Ballantine, Tee Morris

  “Bruce,” Brandon said, lifting him up to his feet, “you had me worried there for a spell.”

  “Get Ryfka. She’s coming with.”

  Brandon gingerly took her hand. “Poor thing’s cold to the touch.”

  “It’s Russia, mate. Everyone’s cold.” He turned to the final tank and could just make out its cannons coming to bear. “Time to run,” he said, draping Ryfka’s bad arm over his shoulders.

  The three of them hobbled in the direction from where Brandon had appeared. Behind them, the motorcycle erupted. Bruce’s footing slipped a bit when the concussion wave slapped into them, but he pushed forward, an operative waving ahead of them serving as the carrot to his horse. He didn’t know if there was a medic or a full extraction team on the other side of that door, but whomever waited for him, he knew, would be of a better disposition than Mama Bear and her remaining tank.

  Stepping into the dark, Ryfka was suddenly jerked from between him and Brandon, and then...

  “Hello, sweetie.”

  A sudden desire to dash back outside and take his chances with Mama Bear nearly overwhelmed Bruce. “Beatrice?” he asked.

  Still a foot taller than him. Still imposing, especially with the Lee-Metford-Tesla in her grasp. Still a befuddling—if not completely stunning—mix of lethal force and graceful beauty, Beatrice Octavia Muldoon considered him with her brilliant blue eyes. Bruce was frantically trying to recall how Beatrice and he parted after the events of the Diamond Jubilee. He remembered her standing over him as if she were a child of Ares and Aphrodite, her high cheekbones appearing even harder in the early shadows of a magic hour just after she had knocked him on his ass. The cross to his jaw had served as a harsh reminder not to make bold assumptions of the lady.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing here, Bea?” Bruce finally managed.

  She was about to answer, but through the floor he could feel that rhythmic thump-thump-thump again.

  “Priorities, Bruce,” she said, throwing the rifle over her shoulder. “We’ve got a flight to catch. Party of two.”

  “Three,” Bruce quickly corrected her as he motioned to Ryfka under what looked like the care of the extraction team’s medic. “Górski here is coming with us.”

  The woman’s face darkened slightly before turning to the bloke checking on Ryfka. “Fischer?”

  “I don’t know about three,” he replied. “Weight concerns.”

  “We’ll make it work,” Bruce insisted. “Let’s get a move on.”

  Beatrice shook her head, then beckoned them to follow her. “That tank will be upon us in a few, so come on. Through the back door.”

  Bruce and Brandon took up Ryfka, and followed Beatrice and the one called Fischer—a sturdy gent that didn’t look like he could move fast, but his pace was damn impressive—to a solitary door at the back of the building. Beatrice was frantically shooing them across the threshold as the thumping underfoot grew stronger.

  “They’re getting closer,” Fischer said. “From the feel of the floor, five minutes, if that.”

  “How did you convince the extraction to stay put?” Bruce asked Brandon as they climbed into a truck cab. It was going to be a tight fit for the three of them.

  “Miss Muldoon took one look at me and asked ‘You’re the mission?’ to which I replied that I was working with you.” Brandon shrugged. “Suddenly we weren’t leaving until you got here.”

  Well, fancy that.

  The building behind them exploded, a large plume of smoke and fire rising from where they had all been.

  “Hang on, everyone,” Beatrice called over her shoulder as their transport lumbered away into the night.

  “What about your men with the rockets?” Bruce asked.

  “Autolaunchers.” Fischer said, opening the throttle to coax more speed. “Designed them back in my Department days. The targeting system is based on a network of magnets.” He craned his neck to talk over his shoulder. His smile puffed out his already round cheeks even more. “As the surrounding buildings were mainly comprised of white stone, those tanks made for an easy lock on. You see, I had originally calibrated the autolaunchers for trucks like this one. You can see with the amount of metal that—”

  “Fischer,” Beatrice said, spinning up the transformers mounted in the stock, “you’re doing it again.”

  “Sorry, Miss Muldoon.”

  “Just keep your eyes peeled and get us out of town.”

  If there was no resistance, it would be a smooth, uninterrupted drive from here to the German border. So far, from the sounds of where they left, Mama Bear was determined to raze anything to the ground between her and Bruce. For their own part, their truck was now only a block from the edge of the city. Bruce could only assume it would be a trip down this road to an awaiting airship, cross over the Germanic border, and then a lovely cruise home. Easy as pudding.

  “Contact,” Fischer said.

  Up ahead, a line of Houseboys took a position across their path. Mama Bear was obviously leaving nothing to chance.

  “How far away is our airship?” Bruce asked.

  Beatrice kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead. “We’re not meeting an airship.”

  “Come again, Bea?”

  “Be a dear, Bruce, and shut it!” she snapped. “Do we have enough road?”

  “With the extra passenger? I’m not certain,” Fischer replied. He stroked his blonde goatee, then took hold of a red lever over his head. “We could just barrel right through them.”

  “No, Paul,” she said as she released the safety on her rifle. “We need to clear the tree line.”

  “Care to let me in on this little plan of yours?” Bruce asked.

  “Just hold on and pray,” she replied.

  Their truck was picking up speed. Bruce could see Houseboys now completely blocked the road returning them into the forest cover. It was impossible to see exactly what kind of guns they were brandishing, and that was a bit irksome.

  “Give the word, Beatrice,” Fischer said.

  “Not yet.”

  They pressed on. Bruce could see Fischer’s hand gripping something under the dashboard while his free hand kept the wheel steady. “Anytime, Bea.”

  “Pull that now,” she warned, “and this will all be for naught. Hold. Steady.”

  Their truck continued to rumble forward. Bruce could now see the House shouldering their rifles, the lights of mini-generators flaring to life causing Bruce’s throat to tighten.

  “She knows what she’s doing, Bruce,” Brandon said. His mate leaned forward in his seat and then said to Beatrice, “You do know what you are doing?”

  “Not now, Hill,” Beatrice muttered as she pulled her own rifle closer, flipping a third switch in its main transformer. Bruce knew the Lee-Metford-Tesla Mark IV, thanks to Shillingworth. That feature was something new. “Bruce, love, can you reach my coat?”

  “Sure thing, Bea,” he said, leaning forward as best as he could to take hold of Beatrice’s coat tail. He wrapped it several times around his hand and wrist. “Hope your tailor is worth their salt.”

  “Gieves & Hawkes,” Beatrice said as she opened her door. “Paul, get ready. This is going to go quick.”

  As she leaned out of the cab, Bruce’s grip tightened on the thick fabric of her coat. He was expecting the pop of stitches, a strain against the fabric, but Gieves & Hawkes were true masters of their office. Henry Poole and Company knew what he liked, and they could make him shine like a newly minted shilling; but maybe these blokes could give him something more appropriate for the field.

  Beatrice aimed just over the Houseboys’ ranks and fired. From the Tesla modification. What came from the bell-shaped cage was a blue sphere, its glow so muted that it disappeared only a few feet into its launch.

  “Pull me in, Bruce.” He heaved, and Beatrice slipped back into her seat. “Pull it, Fischer. Goggles down.” She placed dark lenses over her eyes and turned back to the three of them. “Shield your eyes.”

  Bruce and B
randon pulled themselves into Ryfka as Bruce heard a series of latches unlock all around them while a loud hissing filled their cab. Even through the strain of his screwed-shut eyes, Bruce could see the glare of something bright appear. Right ahead of them.

  “Just keep your eyes shut, Campbell,” he heard Beatrice shout.

  She knew him to a fault.

  An odd lurch, and his stomach dropped a few inches to bop his bowels. Ryfka’s grip tightening on him served as a strange reassurance. Throughout this fresh slice of madness, she was still with them, still alive.

  Bugger it, he thought to himself as he dared to open his eyes.

  The pearlescent fog in front of them was dazzling, if not slightly disorienting. There were brief flashes of red, blue, green, and violet within it, these other colours dancing through the luminescent mist as would the hobby lanterns of Ireland. The blinding light did not unsettle Bruce. The occasional bursts of colour coming from the strange cloud did not unsettle Bruce.

  It was that their truck—or at least part of it—was quickly rising above this strange fireworks display. That unsettled Bruce. Quite a bit.

  “Get ready to feel a little jolt!” Fischer called as he pulled hard against that red lever over his head.

  Bruce, Ryfka, and Brandon were thrown back into their seat. The strange luminescent cloud slipped quickly underneath them, followed moments later by the sound of something scratching underneath their cab.

  “Paul!” Beatrice snapped. “Pull up!”

  “I am pulling up!” he returned. “The extra weight is not helping.”

  She looked at Fischer, her eyes noting that rather solid frame he himself sported.

  “Not a word,” Fischer warned, “about that extra helping of apple strudel I had last night.” He shook his head. “Not. One. Word.”

  The scratching grew louder as their cab trembled, threatening to shake itself apart. Bruce pulled Ryfka even closer to him as they climbed higher into the night. Then the rapid scraping sound subsided, and their cab tipped forward ever so slightly. The pull of the seat eased up, and with the gradual release of pressure Bruce could hear a low rumble of rockets coming from either side of them.

  “You call that a little jolt, mate?” Brandon barked.

  “The Sunburst would stun those Usher blokes for only a spell,” Fischer spoke over his shoulder. “We needed to not only get beyond the infantry but clear the grove. Our ascent was a bit dicey, but none the worse for wear. I’ll let the boys at Section P know we are en route.”

  “Nice work, Paul,” Beatrice sighed, storing her rifle in the door.

  Bruce leaned forward slightly to peer out of the cab window. Far below was nothing but darkness accented by patches of snow. From the looks of how quickly these brief glimpses of white passed by, they were still moving at a fast pace. He looked up and could make out a balloon—and judging from what he could see and the lack of a curve, a massive balloon—overhead. A low drone still tickled Bruce’s ears amidst the groaning and creaks of cables and struts attached to their cab.

  No, not a cab. A gondola.

  “You like it?” Beatrice asked. “The latest in German engineering. Section P needed a thorough field testing so I obliged.”

  Bruce blinked. “Field testing? You mean those blighters at Section P had no clue this bloody thing would even work?”

  “Well,” Fischer began, even though Beatrice’s mouth was open as if she were about to answer the question, “Section P’s engineers test their equipment up to, and sometimes even beyond, the point of failure. This field test was really just a chance to open this little wonder up and see what she could—”

  “Fischer,” warned Beatrice.

  He paused in mid-thought. “I’m doing it again?”

  “You’re doing it again.”

  Fischer stroked his goatee. “Right then. I’ll just pilot the dirigible, shall I?”

  Beatrice nodded.

  “Estimated time of arrival in Breslau, one hour. We should be switching to prop power in the next ten minutes or so.”

  “Good man,” she said.

  “Can either of you do me a favour?” Bruce asked. “Do we have any kind of light for our...gondola?”

  Beatrice opened up a small compartment in front of her and produced a torch. With a twist, one end illuminated the lower corner of their gondola.

  “Just focus it on my hands,” he said as he maneuvered around to face Ryfka as much as he could.

  Beatrice’s head tipped to one side as she obliged. Bruce gently placed two fingers under Ryfka’s chin, bringing her eyes to his own. He then motioned to his hands.

  It’s over, he signed. We will be in Germany soon.

  Ryfka smiled, looking up at him. “Thank you,” she managed, and then pulled him close to kiss his cheek.

  Go on and rest, he signed.

  The sniper nuzzled closer to Bruce and closed her eyes. It wouldn’t take her long to get to sleep.

  The light flickered off. “Still making friends wherever you go, Campbell?”

  “You know me, Bea,” he said. “All about improving global relations.”

  “One bird at a time?” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Not this one, Bea,” he said. “This one saved my hide.” He then settled back in the seat as much as he could. It was going to be a long hour in the air. “I guess I owe you, as well.”

  “Leave you to be tortured by Usher? I couldn’t let that happen.” In the dim light of their cabin, he could see Beatrice smile. “That’s my favourite hobby.”

  Bruce nodded. “I know a good wine shop in Breslau.”

  Beatrice purred. “I do love a good Riesling.”

  “Then how about I make things square between us once we get back down to earth?”

  “Love to.”

  From the other end of the gondola, Brandon groaned. “No way this could end badly.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wherein the Will of the Empire Is Made Known

  “You’re being quite terrible to your Uncle Henry, Wellington,” Jekyll said, his face musculature attempting to grow larger, even though his size had doubled in the short time they were standing in front of one another. “How disappointed your father would be.”

  “If memory serves,” Wellington said evenly, “you and my father had a bit of a falling out. I happened to be back from school for a holiday.” He nodded as he circled his opponent. “I was fourteen, but I remember the huge row you two had.”

  “Your father was narrow-minded!” Jekyll snapped. “He refused to see beyond his commission to the House of Usher. It was all about delivering results and preserving his legacy. I wanted to evolve those we deemed fit. Don’t you see, Little Wellington?” Jekyll motioned to himself and to the archivist as he said with that bizarre smile of his. “You and I? We are gods among scuttling ants.”

  “If that is the case,” Wellington said, tightening his fist around the knuckle dusters, “then please do refer to me with something far more reverent than ‘Little Wellington’.”

  Bringing his fist up, the punch he delivered was given a touch more pep thanks to the brass encasing his fist. Jekyll stumbled backward, tripped over his own feet, and landed soundly on his back. The impact was also enough to cause Wellington to lose his balance.

  A most fortunate happenstance, as a rebel turned his pistol on him and fired. The bullet tore through his shoulder, a hot, searing shock that sent Wellington—even in his battle trance—down to one knee.

  The roar he easily mistook for a lion’s cry, but looking up, all he saw was Jekyll grabbing the soldier, his meaty hand wrapping completely around the Indian.

  “I am having a conversation with an old family friend,” he growled to the man. “Do you mind?”

  Jekyll’s arm cocked back and he tossed the poor sod high into the air. The soldier’s arms and legs failed wildly as he tumbled before crashing through one of the Palace’s pavilions.

  “Now,” Jekyll said, turning slowly around to face Wellington, “
we were discussing the issues I had with your father.”

  Wellington went to get back on his feet, but then noticed two more insurgents running at Jekyll, their rifles up and ready to fire.

  Jekyll’s arm came around and swept across the two men, shooting them into the sandstone walls. The subtle, tan colour of the Water Palace now found itself decorated with splatters of blood.

  “KARI!” Jekyll howled. “DO NOT TEST MY PATIENCE!”

  Nahush Kari appeared on the far stairs, flanked by nearly a dozen men. Wellington could hear his army engaging the Ministry and the military across the courtyard and in the palace’s corridors, but these rebels were all pointing their weapons at Jekyll. “You kill my men without provocation and expect me to be compliant?”

  “They are not to harm Wellington Books here,” he warned, his eyes still bulging with a wild fury. “My interest in him should be indication enough that he is a priority.”

  “I have brought you here and fetched what you desire, as you wished.” Kari motioned to Wellington. “This Ministry agent was never mentioned.”

  Jekyll took in a breath before bellowing even louder, “I’m mentioning him now!”

  A soldier fired his rifle, and the round harmlessly bounced off Jekyll’s chest. Kari whirled around and shouted to his men, his hands out. Wellington could only assume he was trying to calm them.

  What Nahush should have done was try and calm Jekyll, who appeared to gain another foot in height to his already massive size.

  “Bloody savages,” Jekyll growled. “I should have known!”

  Jekyll lumbered up to Kari’s men, and grabbed one of the soldiers by his legs. The monster swept this resistance fighter across the ranks, scattering insurgents as if they were pins on a bowling pitch. Bullets pelted Jekyll, but they were nothing more than bothersome gnats to this giant. The melee now descended into complete mayhem as the Ghost Rebellion did not know where to focus their attention and their firepower—the unseen Ministry-military forces, or the mutated monster within their midst.

  “I know I will regret this,” Wellington said as he got to his feet.