by Paul Crilley
Tweed had to remember to step aside when all the important and harassed staff who actually made the Albion stay in the air hurried past, some of them clutching creased rolls of paper, others with compasses and huge files. It all looked very disorganized to him. Surely they should have had this all sorted out before they left? It was as if they were only just now plotting their course. He supposed they had to constantly readjust, though. To make allowances for bad weather, winds, that kind of thing.
He arrived at the bridge. It was a large room right at the front of the airship, crowded with brass and wood paneled instruments. A huge globe of the world took up the center of the room. Two men and a woman were studying it, measuring distances with odd instruments and scribbling down notes in leather-bound journals. A wide window arced around the front wall, showing a view of the sky outside. In the distance he could see grey clouds towering up in their path, obscuring the pristine blue he had seen earlier. He supposed that was what all the fuss was about. To go through the weather system, or around it? And if around it, how much extra speed would they need to make up lost time?
Tweed saw the door he was searching for off to the right. But one of the crew happened to look up as he entered. His face lit up with relief and he raised his hand.
“You here to take our orders? Coffee for me.”
A woman standing next to him glanced in Tweed's direction. “Tea here.”
“Coffee.”
“Orange juice.”
“Tea.”
The orders flew at Tweed from all corners of the room, and he jotted them all down in his notepad before heading to the door that led to the records room.
He slipped inside. The room was small, no more than three paces long. It had a narrow desk at one end. A shelf on the wall above it was filled with leather-bound ledgers. Tweed checked the first one. A ledger for buying food for the kitchens. Another was for housekeeping, a record of bed sheets, washing soap, silver polish, that kind of thing.
He found what he was looking for in the next book. The names of all the guests, listed in neat cursive handwriting. Tweed flipped through the pages. Over a thousand names, all linked to their room numbers. The names were listed alphabetically, which was rather handy.
He flipped to the back and skimmed through all the names beginning with W. Then he frowned and did it again.
There was no Wilberforce listed here.
He checked a third time, but he hadn't made a mistake. Still nothing.
He turned to M, just in case he was listed under Molock. No luck.
Tweed sighed and sat down at the desk, flipping back to the beginning of the book, just in case someone had entered the name on the wrong page. He read through every single entry but there was no Wilberforce or Molock listed as a passenger on this ship.
Tweed felt a rush of doubt. Had he been mistaken? Were they even now traveling away from their target?
But no, he had found the singed card back in Tesla's factory and it had been Molock who dropped it. He had to be here. He must simply be using another false name.
Which meant it was going to be very difficult to find him. He and Octavia would just have to wander around, keeping their eyes open in the hopes of spotting him. He had to tell Octavia. She would have more chance to wander the ship freely.
He put the book back and hurried through the bridge, heading down through the levels to Octavia's room. He knocked and waited. The door was opened a second later by Octavia.
“I'm afraid I didn't order room service,” she said.
Tweed slipped passed her, then stared around the room in annoyed awe. “This is hardly fair,” he said.
Octavia flopped onto a chaise lounge, and started eating chocolates. She looked annoying relaxed. Tweed slumped down into the chair opposite her.
She held out the box of chocolates to him. “Only the nut ones left, I'm afraid. And the ginger ones.”
Tweed made a face. “Hate those.”
“So how goes the life of an honest worker?” asked Octavia.
“Terrible. No wonder Barnaby tried to turn me to a life of crime. I don't know how people do it. And you know what the worst thing is? Having to take orders from cretins, absolute imbeciles who I am infinitely more intelligent than.”
“And infinitely more modest too.”
“What point false modesty?” asked Tweed. “It's a fact. I'm more intelligent than ninety-eight percent of the people on board this airship.”
Octavia pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. Tweed knew that was her disagreeing, but not really wanting to get into it at the moment. He let it go.
“And you? How goes the life of a highborn lady?” he asked.
He knew he should just tell her about Molock, but she looked rather relaxed lying there on her couch, and he didn't want to end that for her. “It seems to suit you.”
Octavia stretched luxuriantly. “Oh, it does. I think I was born to be a member of the elite. All the pampering.”
Tweed sighed. “Listen, While you've been bathing in goat's milk or whatever is it you lot do in first class, I've already checked the passenger manifest.”
Octavia sat up, her eyes widening with anticipation. Tweed held up his hand. “Don't get excited. Wilberforce's name isn't there. Neither is Molock's.”
Octavia slumped back. “Why do we keep running into these walls?” she snapped. “Every time we get somewhere it seems like we're thrown two steps back.”
“It's not hopeless. We just have to keep our eyes open. He has to show his face sometime.”
“And if he doesn't? What if he stays in his cabin?”
“For the whole trip? No way. Besides, if he does, there will be talk about it downstairs. The working classes are very prone to gossip, you know. Think it keeps their minds off how pointless their existences are.”
Octavia frowned at him. “You'd better not mean that, Tweed. That's not a very nice thing to say.”
Tweed opened his mouth to say, well, yes, he sort of did mean it. Just because it's not a nice thing to say, doesn't mean it's not true. But he didn't. Instead he sighed and shut his mouth.
What unholy power did Octavia have over him? Was this friendship? Not wanting to be a disappointment to her? Trying to measure up all the time? Making sure you didn't offend? He was sure that wasn't right. Friendship should be about saying what you wanted without fear of being cast out, surely? Judgment was fine. She could judge him for what he said. But friendship meant he should be free to say it in front of her.
“Actually, I did mean it,” he said haughtily. “And if you don't like it then you can stuff more of those chocolates in your mouth, because…well…tough.”
Octavia narrowed her eyes to tiny slits. Tweed readied himself for the attack, because when she looked like that, something was coming. But whether it would be a chocolate to the head, or a verbal tirade he wasn't sure. He carefully put his hand on a nearby pillow, just in case.
He was rescued by a knock at the door.
“Thought you said you didn't order room service.”
“I didn't!” she snapped. “And this isn't over.”
She pushed herself up off the chaise lounge and went to answer the door. Tweed hastily stood up and grabbed a nearby silver tray. Just in case it was a member of the staff. Wouldn't do to have him spotted sitting around on the guests’ furniture.
Octavia opened the door.
Tweed blinked in surprise.
Octavia blinked in surprise.
Molock blinked in surprise. “Um…what—?” he started to ask, but that was as far as he got, because Tweed flung the silver tray through the air directly at him. He cried out and tried to twist away, but it hit him in the side of the head, stunning him. He dropped to one knee. Tweed ran forward, but Octavia already had Molock under the shoulders and was dragging him inside the room. Tweed slammed the door shut.
“Get some ropes or something,” said Octavia.
Tweed looked around. There were curtains on the walls, even though there we
re no actual windows. He ripped the cords that held them open and helped Octavia drag Molock to a chair. He tied the man's arms behind his back and his ankles to the chair.
Octavia and Tweed stood back, both of them breathless. They looked at Molock as he blinked and tried to focus on them. Then they looked at each other, smiles breaking out on their faces.
Octavia reached out and flicked his ear. Hard.
“Ow!” Tweed jerked away and looked at her as if she was mad. “What was that for?”
“For what you said about lower classes.”
Octavia stared hard at the man before her, the man responsible for her mother's disappearance. He didn't look like a monster, like someone who would rip a family apart. He looked…harmless. A mild-mannered, thin face, a neat suit, immaculate hair. In fact, he looked slightly worried as he came to his senses and found them both staring at him.
“Who are you?” Molock asked. He frowned. “And why did you hit me?” he looked around. “This is Mr. Stackpole's room, is it not?”
“You're looking for Stackpole?” asked Tweed in surprise.
“You're not trying to kill us?” said Octavia.
Molock frowned. He closed his eyes for a few moments then opened them again.
“I know your voice,” he said to Tweed. He stared at him for a few moments before realization dawned. “You were the one at Tesla's factory. The one who shot us.”
Octavia put her hand up. “Actually, that was me.”
Tweed pulled up Molock's sleeve. No Osiris tattoo. He looked questioningly at Octavia. She shrugged.
“I must admit to great confusion,” said Molock. “Judging by your actions, you seem to know about the Hermetic Order of Osiris. Am I correct?”
“If you mean the crazy cult that's been trying to kill us, then yes, we do. You aren't one of them?”
“Of course not!” said Molock, shocked. “If they found me I would be dead in an instant. Look, there has obviously been some misunderstanding here. I must speak to Stackpole before he does something terrible.”
“Stackpole's dead,” said Tweed.
Molock's eyes widened. His eyes flicked between the two of them. “Dead? But…Did you…?”
“What? No!” exclaimed Octavia. “Of course not.”
“It was this…Hermetic Brotherhood…” said Tweed.
“The Hermetic Order of Osiris.”
“Yeah. Them. They killed him at his home. Tortured him first.”
“Why would they do that?” said Molock, confusion clear in his voice. “It doesn't make sense.”
“That doesn't matter,” said Octavia. “You're here for another reason. Where is my mother?”
Molock's face crumpled into an almost comical look of confusion. Octavia almost felt sorry for him. “What? Your mother…I don't…” He shook his head helplessly. “I don't know what's happening right now.”
“My mother. Where is she?”
“Who is your mother? I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“My mother,” said Octavia softly, “is Elizabeth Nightingale. A reporter for The Times. She was taken to a Ministry prison and for some reason you…signed her out. Took her away somewhere.”
“Eliz—” Molock stared at her, then he broke into a smile. “You're Octavia! Of course. I should have seen the resemblance.”
Octavia's heart skipped when she heard his words.
He knows what I'm talking about. He really knows.
She had been scared she was following the wrong path, that her mother was slipping farther and farther away. But she wasn't. She was close. Here was proof. She took a step forward.
“So you admit to it?”
“To saving your mother's life? Yes. I do.”
This time it was Octavia's turn to look confused. “Saving her life? But you kidnapped her. You've kept her prisoner for over a year.”
“I assure you I did not.” Molock sighed. “I see we are talking at cross purposes here. Perhaps I should explain?”
“We would like that very much,” said Tweed. “Very much indeed.”
“Fine. Your mother was investigating a man called Lucien—”
“We know that.”
“Right. Fine. Lucien was using a simulacra of Sherlock Holmes to put some terrible plan into action. He had allied himself with the Russian Tsar and planned to assassinate—”
“Yes, yes,” said Octavia. “All things we know. Skip to the end.”
“The Tsar was also allied with another group. The Hermetic Order of Osiris.”
Now that they didn't know. “Why?” asked Octavia. “What does this…this cult want?”
Molock sighed, troubled. “This is…very hard to explain. I can show you, but…it's difficult to know how you will react. I'm worried you may do something impulsive and…try to hurt me.”
“Why on earth would we do that?” said Octavia.
“Because if I show you what I fear I must…it will change your entire outlook on life. Your whole viewpoint will shift. This is not something to be done lightly.”
Octavia bit her lip. What he was saying did sound a bit worrying, but whatever it was he had to show them, it couldn't be that bad, could it? Maybe it was just a ruse for them to untie his hands.
“We're not going to untie you,” she said.
“You don't need to.”
Octavia glanced at Tweed and he shrugged.
“I'm game if you are,” he said. “Always ready to have my viewpoint shifted.”
Octavia rolled her eyes. That was a lie. Tweed was one of the most stuck-in-his-ways people she'd ever met. And at seventeen! What would he be like as an old man?
“Fine,” she said to Molock. “Show us.”
What Octavia saw next would stay with her forever. Not just a vague memory, but every tiny detail, every sound in the room, every color, every smell of that moment was imprinted on her very being.
At first, nothing happened. Molock simply closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. But then his face…his face rippled, like tiny waves lapping against the shore. His whole mouth and nose sort of pushed outward, distorting. His lips receded and pulled away, his nose flattening until all that was left were two nostrils. His coloring darkened, turning brown, then olive green. The skin itself separated, forming tiny scales, little ridges that covered the face.
Tweed grabbed her arm and they both stumbled backward in shock. Tweed swept up the silver plate he had thrown earlier and Octavia grabbed her gun from the table.
Molock opened eyes that had turned yellow. On top of that he now had two sets of eyelids. The normal ones, and another set, membranous, that opened horizontally.
She was looking at what she could only describe as some sort of lizard-man.
“I told you,” said Molock mildly.
Octavia's mouth was hanging open. She closed it, still keeping the Tesla gun pointed at the creature.
“What…what are you?” said Octavia in a voice she couldn't help notice was trembling. She cleared her throat. “Tell us.” She waved the gun threateningly.
“There's no need for the weapon. Despite what you may think, we're on the same side.”
Octavia glanced at Tweed. He had put the silver tray down. He moved slowly around Molock, leaning down to check the hands that were tied behind the chair.
Octavia followed. Molock's hands were the same as the face. Dark green lizard skin. She hesitantly reached out and touched it. Hard. Dry.
She moved back to stand in front of him. “Explain,” she said.
Molock nodded. “I will. To start with, I am not one of your race. I am a Hyperborean.”
“A what?” said Tweed. He bent down and moved his face within an inch of Molock's, tilting his head to the side, studying.
“A Hyperborean,” said Molock, moving his face away from Tweed. “That means I'm from Hyperborea,” he added helpfully.
“I know what it means,” snapped Tweed. “But Hyperborea is a mythical place. It doesn't exist.” Tweed reached out with a finger
and prodded Molock's face.
“Do you mind?”
“Sorry.”
“And it does exist.”
Octavia didn't know what to say. She was staring at a lizard-man. He was staring at them. He was there. He was real.
“Are there more of you?” asked Tweed.
“Oh yes. Hundreds of thousands.”
“And where is this…Hyperborea?” asked Octavia.
“Inside the earth.”
Tweed snorted. “This is like an Atticus Pope story. Are you saying the earth is hollow?”
“Not hollow. At least, not all the way. But hidden lands far underground? Oh yes. That is where Hyperborea lies.”
“With…” Tweed waved his hands in the air, “light? And vegetation? And animals?”
Molock nodded.
“And you've always been there?”
“Always.”
“So why haven't we heard about you before now?”
“Well, you have, in a way. You know about Hyperborea.”
“Legends. Stories. But not as a real place.”
“That is because of the Covenant. We have always done everything we could to make sure your people do not find out about us. If that were to happen…I think a war of terrible proportions would break out. Our races are not meant to mix. We are too different.”
“But what about this Hermetic Order? Do they know about you?”
“I'm afraid so.”
“How?”
Molock winced. “To make you understand, I have to tell you some of our history.”
“Please. Go right ahead,” said Tweed. “We're all ears. Which is more than can be said for you.” Tweed leaned down to inspect the small holes on either side of Molock's head.
“Please don't do that.”
Tweed straightened up.
“There used to be a society that knew about us. Over time, they came to worship us, actually based their gods on us. Their whole way of life, really.”
“Who were these people?” asked Octavia.
“The ancient Egyptians. Five thousand years ago Egypt was a bountiful land. Green, hot. A beautiful place. When the Egyptians first settled on the Nile Delta, they did so because we were there first. We had been there for centuries, come up from the land below. They were no more than primitives, but we allowed them to settle close by. It amused us. Made us feel superior. They looked on us as gods. Thoth, Anubis, Osiris, Amun, Ra…all those were members of our ruling elite, names of real people.” Molock sighed. “They based their entire civilization on us.”
