He imagined himself at that fateful rugby match hosted by Eliza’s countrymen. She had watched as he surrendered to baser emotions—jealousy being at the forefront—and make a rather unsporting tackle against that rather pompous wanker, Douglas Sheppard. Wellington let this specific training of Arthur Books take hold. His muscles tensed and turn his body into an armour of flesh similar to Jekyll’s, turning Wellington into that cad fulfilling the Forward position on that day.
This time, however, his intentions were completely and utterly malevolent.
Wellington led with his good shoulder, his eyes narrowing on the massive knee joint just visible through Jekyll’s torn trousers. He felt flesh and muscle underneath him give way to his momentum. Something inside this tree trunk of a leg cracked sharply.
Jekyll’s deafening scream drowned out the gunfire.
Rolling away from the toppling behemoth, Wellington scrambled to his feet. He truly hoped he had not made the wrong judgment call.
Now staggering, Jekyll tossed the solder still in his grasp aside and struggled to take pressure off his damaged knee. He stumbled, then collapsed, his body smashing into one of the wooden cases he had been carrying.
“Wellington,” he heard a familiar voice call to him, “take cover!”
The Mule’s Kick appeared in the air and remained suspended there for a moment, tumbling end over end. As it did, Wellington noticed a glow coming from it. That was to be expected, but this glow was far brighter than he had ever seen.
Then the sun caught its handle. Someone had modified it.
“Bloody hell, Eliza,” Wellington swore as he ran for the nearest window and leapt through.
Sandstone walls buckled and cracked as the concussion struck them. The sound wave ripped through the windows, knocking over any insurgents entrenched there.
Wellington remained low to the ground as gunfire soon followed. Cries of “God save the Queen!” and the report of what Wellington recognised as Maulik Smith’s Queensbury Rules echoed through the palace. Despite their small numbers, O’Neil and his men were making a final push.
Wellington dared to look up just as Nahush Kari emerged from the dust and smoke. He looked a bit bruised, but none the worse for wear. With a glance over his shoulder, the rebel leader sprinted into the corridor just ahead of him.
Returning to his feet, Wellington made chase. He picked up a rifle off a dead soldier, and quickly checked its chamber. He had at least one round at the ready. This wing of the Water Palace appeared deserted, save for Nahush running ahead of him.
“Nahush Kari!” Wellington shouted as he stopped and shouldered his weapon. “Stop!”
The man continued down the hallway. Wellington gave him three steps before pulling the trigger.
Nahush’s steps never faltered.
I never miss, Wellington thought quickly as he loaded what he hoped would be another round. He resumed his pursuit, playing in his mind over and over again what should have been a debilitating shot. Were the sights off on this rifle?
Nahush’s hand came up, and Wellington could see a box of some description. A wireless device. A light flickered on its surface, and a rush of cool air struck Wellington in the face as an æthergate appeared at the end of the corridor. He braced the stock into his good shoulder and fired again; but his quarry merely turned to face him, Nahush halfway between the Water Palace and wherever this personal portal led. He then tossed his device into the air before proceeding through. Once the box shattered against the palace floor, the portal collapsed on itself. Nahush Kari, at an extreme risk to himself, was gone.
“Welly?” Eliza called. “Wellington Thornhill Books, if I find you dead, I will never speak to you again!”
“Sorry to disappoint,” he replied, his eyes going back and forth the length of his rifle, “but I’m here, alive and well.”
Eliza came around the corner, her face a twisted expression of concern until her eyes came to his own. There was elation, immediately followed by shock. Wellington felt his shoulder throb, and understood. She went to say something, but a blinding light suddenly swept through the hallway. The sudden flash was accompanied by a chilled gust of wind, and Wellington tasted copper as he heard a wild crack of electricity.
“Jekyll,” they said together.
They both ran for the opening of the corridor, but on reaching the courtyard the light disappeared. Through the odd patches of grey floating before him, the palace centre was littered with insurgents. Some were bent in abnormal fashions while others were trying to summon the courage to continue. The small number of British and Ministry rushed across the courtyard, scuttling to a halt, holding the rebels at bay with their own rifles and sidearms.
Sophia emerged from the corridors alongside Maulik and O’Neil. “The doctor came prepared with a contingency, it would appear,” she stated sourly.
“Well done,” Maulik said, although he did not sound like a man who had just captured a movement against the crown. “A shame to lose Jekyll again. Something about this place. Jekyll’s good luck charm, I suppose. And Wellington, kept your wits about you this go round?”
“I will feel a touch wittier once I see a medic,” he winced, tossing his rifle aside.
Maulik motioned with his hand. “Follow me, everyone. We will patch up Books here and make him right as rain.”
The three of them followed Maulik on a slow walk back to the train, while O’Neil and his men led at gunpoint the few remnants of the Ghost Rebellion to a far corner of the courtyard. They stopped on seeing Vania Pujari led to where her other compatriots were held. Sophia smiled slightly at the bloody bandage around her left hand.
Eliza’s blue eyes locked with the treasonous agent’s. Wellington knew that look from his partner. She was searching for some sign of regret, but he knew her search would be in vain.
“Why?” she finally asked.
“If you have to ask ‘why’ then you truly are ignorant. You believe we are all happy citizens, equal in every way?” Vania spat into Eliza’s face. “That is how you see us.”
Eliza took a moment. She slowly dabbed off the spittle with her sleeve. “Your sister never showed such resentment to the Empire.”
Vania’s eyes narrowed, “I am not her.”
“No,” she spoke evenly, “You most certainly are not.”
A soldier nudged Vania in the back with the butt of his rifle. With a final look to Eliza, she was led to where the rebels sat, most of whom Wellington recognised from various photos and daguerreotypes. She soon joined their ranks without question or protest, her look one of hardened resolution, as it was with all of them.
“The Lieutenant has taken command of the palace, Wellington,” Maulik said in a low, stiff tone. From behind them, O’Neil shouted orders to his men. On account of the echo, it was hard to hear exactly what those orders were. “As this is a military operation now, the responsibility of the Ghost Rebellion falls upon O’Neil. Now let us tend to that shoulder of yours. We would hate to have it infected, now wouldn’t we?”
Wellington cast a glance at Eliza and Sophia, who had their gazes fixed on Maulik.
“This is Agent Kessler,” Maulik said, motioning to a Ministry agent coming out of the train, carrying an assortment of bandages and dark bottles. In the growing shadow of the Strategy Car, there were a few agents and soldiers with bandages around eyes, heads, and one soldier who had a tourniquet around his leg. Wellington knew he would not keep that leg for much longer. By the junction where they had begun their push, four bodies lay motionless. All things being as they were, Wellington considered himself most fortunate. “He will fix you up straight away.”
“Excellent,” Wellington said, taking a seat on the edge of the ramp.
“This shouldn’t take long at all, Agent Books,” Kessler told him.
“The Ministry is done here?” Eliza asked Maulik.
“Of course. Your part in this mad caper was to find Jekyll, and you found him. Our part was to understand exactly who or what the Ghost Reb
ellion was, and we did just that. Peculiar occurrences resolved. Now we debrief and collect our train while the military steps in—”
“When did this become a military operation?” Wellington asked, grimacing as Kessler worked on bandaging his wound.
That was when Maulik stopped, and his chair turned to face Wellington. Had that been the wrong question to ask?
“If you must insist on knowing, Agent Books,” Maulik began, his tone sounding particularly authoritative, “it was the attack on Fort St Paul and the Army & Navy Building. The moment Kari spilt the blood of Her Majesty’s soldiers, it became a military matter.” He steepled his fingers as he sat deeper into his wheelchair. “Any other questions you may have concerning protocol between branches of Her Majesty’s government?”
Wellington swallowed. He cast a glance to Eliza, who merely shrugged. His eyes then went to Sophia. A single eyebrow angled itself sharply, and her silent reply to his look spoke volumes. “No, sir.”
O’Neil’s order suddenly rang out across the courtyard. “FIRE!”
Gunshots rippled through the air, and seconds later came a succession of clicks—bolts of rifles —and then, O’Neil’s voice came again. “FIRE!”
From their vantage point at the train, they watched as a line of insurgents, this one with Vania Pujari at its centre, rocked back into the wall behind them, spots of crimson decorating their heads, necks, and chests. They remained standing for perhaps a second before collapsing on the corpses strewn in front of them.
“Before you say one word, Eliza,” Maulik began, “do keep in mind the innocent civilians caught in the crossfire. Consider the agents cut down today, and how many were compromised in the field, on account of her actions. We have no idea the damage done from Miss Pujari’s actions.” He paused. “Consider your words carefully.”
The response did not come from Eliza. Or Wellington. “You are no better than those you fought today.”
All eyes turned to Sophia.
“Madam, you are a guest of the Ministry,” Maulik stated. “That can change.”
“You will hold court as did your military just now?”
“There is also the matter of both æthergate and electroporter technology,” the director returned. “We could not afford to have this knowledge fall into the hands of other scientists.”
“And you think for a moment, Maulik, it justifies what we have done?” Eliza asked. “The Empire—”
“—is whole once more,” he said.
“Not this way!” Eliza insisted. “Sophia is damn well right. We are no better than the Ghost Rebellion!”
“On the contrary,” O’Neil spoke, making them all turn to him, “we are far better than Kari and his lot. It was what helped win the day.”
“What gives you the authority, Lieutenant, to serve as the final word?” Eliza demanded.
“My service and loyalty to the crown, Agent Braun. And my new rank as captain.”
Eliza took in a breath, cast a glance to Maulik, and then stormed off, disappearing into the corridors of the Water Palace.
“She isn’t taking this well,” Maulik said with a sigh.
“Truth be told,” Wellington said, looking between both Captain O’Neil and Director Smith, “none of us should.”
Interlude
In Which Predators Gather and Plan for the Future
Mr Fox took a sip of the tea at his elbow, and glanced nervously at the ceiling for the fourth time. Jaipur, for this godforsaken country, was surprisingly beautiful, full of tourists, plenty of activity, and a delightful display of culture nestled within signs of British innovation. All these things and more made Jaipur the worst place to be after the events at the Water Palace.
And of all locations to meet—a hookah café. They may as well had been wearing pith helmets and draped in the Union Flag.
“Relax, Jeremy,” Holmes said, a curl of smoke rising up before his face. “That’s the whole idea of places like this, you know.”
Jeremy shot the Lord of the Manor—no, the Chairman—a glance. For an American, he enjoyed playing king just a little too much. He got them a private corner in the café, sitting on scarlet cushions, with the setting sun dappling over his feet and across the hookah’s ornate water jar. The device seemed to sparkle in the dying light, attracting what he believed unwanted attention to themselves. Henry did look content, but Jeremy wasn’t fooled.
“Indulge a bit in the local culture,” Holmes said, offering Jeremy the pipe.
Not daring to argue with the Chairman, he took the hose, and drew from the mouthpiece. There was, oddly enough, something relaxing in hearing the water burble from within the brass bowl, and the smoke caressing his tongue was cool, sweetened with flavours of cinnamon, ginger, and cumin. He did not want to relax, especially within reach of the Chairman.
“See? Wonderful smoke, this is, and quite impressive that they have updated their hookah to these hoses. It does make it easier to share,” Holmes said before finishing off his cup of tea. “And no, I would not even think of using this advancement as a garrotte. That would ruin the experience.”
Jeremy exhaled, decorating the air around them with a veil of smoke. As wonderful as this indulgence was, he could not afford to relax around this man.
“Quite a display today.” Holmes’ eyes were slitted, like a cat at rest, but just like one he could pounce. “Arthur Books’ theories of indoctrination, physical training, and Jekyll’s serum creating superb fighting men does seem to have merit.”
The Chairman did not make a comfortable travelling companion, but at least he had witnessed the wonders of Project Achilles. Jeremy tapped his satchel where two film reels were kept dry and cool. “And I have the evidence to show to the rest of the board.”
Holmes waved his hand as he drew from the hookah. After a long exhale, he said, “This super soldier project between Arthur Books and Doctor Henry Jekyll was started by your predecessor, so you’ve inherited this albatross. The disappointment of Project Achilles is not yours.”
“Perhaps the inbuilt loyalty to the House we desire can be pushed harder during the indoctrination phase. When we lost Wellington Books against all odds, the project was closed. The doctor slipped into anonymity, pursuing his own projects we discovered with the Diamond Jubilee.”
“And now we know the younger Books had become, to an extent, what the House set out to create. Imagine if we can fetter this power, discover its secrets. Imagine a whole army of Wellington Books’ fashion, obeying only the House of Usher. We would no longer have to hide in the shadows. We could build an empire to make the British one seem timid.” His grin was wide and directed at no one in particular as he leaned back among the cushions. “Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?”
Jeremy found, even though it was quite comfortable in the café, he was sweating. “You mean, like the presence of Sophia del Morte?”
“Well, not all surprises are welcome. This camaraderie with the Italian was not anticipated. Fascinating, if you linger on the details.” Holmes glanced at his watch. “I think I shall have Mr Badger send a quick message to her.”
Jeremy straightened up immediately, sending cushions tumbling. “Are you sure that is wise, concerning the events at the Draycott? We lost six Brothers that night.”
“Six members of the House who severely underestimated our dear Italian asset. To reach the formidable Miss del Morte you must speak her language.” He gave Jeremy a wink. “No need to worry. I’m fluent in it.”
“Yes, my L—yes, Chairman.”
“Now we have to set ourselves to finding and capturing Mr Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire.”
Jeremy was just about to ask how Holmes wanted to achieve that where so many had failed, when a tall form blocked the sunlight falling on them. “After what we have seen today, a rather tall order, do you not think, Chairman?”
His hand gripped the gun under his jacket, but then after a moment Jeremy was able to make out the clean-shaven features of the newcomer, his hair perfect
ly coiffed, the tailored black suit befitting of a proper gentleman.
“Mr Cobra,” Jeremy said, sliding his hand away from the pistol.
“Nahush, at last,” Holmes said, shaking the man’s hand. “Wonderful to see you still in one piece.”
“Just barely,” Kari said, joining the two gentlemen at the hookah. “You would think with Nahush Kari trapped at the Water Palace, the military would have proven better shots.” He adjusted his spectacles and chuckled. “They needed more time on the firing range.”
“The æthergate we supplied you did not have any adverse effects, I hope?” Jeremy asked.
“After I noticed my own issues with Featherstone’s imitation, I refrained from using it. When you have a potential candidate pinned down by gunfire or overwhelming opposition, any loyal soldier appearing from the other side of a tear in time and space will do.” Kari took the offered pipe and drew, savouring the smoke’s taste for a moment. “That’s why you have your pawns on the chessboard. Before every good leader is quality cannon fodder.”
“After all that time serving as the driving force behind Indian independence,” Holmes said, “I regret seeing your plans quashed today.”
“On the contrary, the Ghost Rebellion was a rousing success,” Kari stated proudly. “Consider what we have left in our wake between the attacks against Fort St Paul and the Army & Navy Building. Parliament will be in an uproar, screaming for justice. They will tighten their noose around India’s neck, which will hopefully birth new movements, all of them evoking the name of Nahush Kari, gone missing since the Massacre of Jal Mahal.”
“I don’t think you can hardly call a military skirmish a massacre,” Jeremy said.
“You can if your men have no way of fighting back.” Kari passed the pipe on to Jeremy and picked up the small tongs hanging against their hookah. He gingerly arranged the coals atop the head, turning them as he spoke. “I had planned for an altercation like this between us and the military. Only few of my soldiers were armed with working rifles. My dear cousin Makeala—the last survivor of the Ghost Rebellion—is now feeding the streets with stories of how we underwent a peaceful pilgrimage to Jal Mahal and were ambushed by the military.”
The Ghost Rebellion Page 31
