by Paul Crilley
Octavia shook her head and grinned. “Tweed!” she shouted.
He glanced over, a second, upside-down boy swinging around to look at her as well. “Put the child down and come meet my mum.”
She returned to her chair to find her mum looking at her shrewdly. “You like him.”
“I do. Although he can be very annoying. And frustrating. But he's a good person.” Octavia thought about it. “He has a heavy soul. He needs to learn how to carry it.”
At that moment Tweed entered the room, rubbing his hands together. Octavia groaned the moment she saw him. He had that slightly manic, wide-eyed look he got when he was in uncomfortable situations.
“Mrs. Nightingale,” he said, holding his hand out.
Octavia's mother shook his hand. “Sebastian Tweed. Octavia has told me everything about you.”
Tweed looked in alarm at Octavia. “Everything?”
“Everything. And I must thank you for helping her track me down. It was very good of you.”
Tweed dismissed this with an airy wave of his hand. “Nonsense. Mrs. Nightingale, I think I can honestly say there isn't much I would not do to help your daughter. You…” He flailed around for the correct words, and spectacularly failed to find them, “…you birthed a very fine specimen with that one,” he said, pointing over at Octavia.
Octavia's eyes widened.
“Er…” said Tweed. “Not birthed. No. Not quite polite that, is it? Created? Spawned? No. Produced? Yes, produced. You produced a very fine human being in Octavia.” He took a deep breath, looking pleased with himself, then frowned. “Human being? Not very flattering that, is it?”
“No,” said Octavia firmly. She couldn't help noticing her mother was trying not to laugh.
“Person? Child? Baby?” He looked helplessly at Octavia. “Oh, whatever. The point is, Octavia Nightingale is a very wonderful person, and I'm sure that's in no small part because of you and Mr. Nightingale. So, well done.”
He looked around the interior of the ship, his face turning more serious. “Actually, families and upbringing have been on my mind rather a lot lately, and I came to the conclusion that Octavia would have turned out just fine without you. She's that kind of person. But your input has, I think, given her that extra something.” He frowned. “Er, that was a compliment.”
“I know it was. And I thank you, Sebastian.”
Tweed nodded seriously. “As I said, it has been weighing on my mind recently. Nature versus nurture. Upbringing versus—”
“Sebastian,” interrupted her mother. “I've known a lot of people in my day. My work has brought me into contact with saints and sinners. I've interviewed murderers and politicians. I've seen unwed mothers who help at the soup kitchen, and killers who find religion. And there is one thing I've learned from all of these people. A single, universal truth.” She leaned forward and gripped Tweed's hand. He was rather startled by this and started to pull away, but Octavia's mother held it tight. “Where you come from does not define who you are. You forge that path every day with your actions.” She released his hand and sat back. “And if everything my daughter has said about you is true, then you're a better man than most I've known who were born into a normal family.”
Octavia stared at her mother in astonishment. She had told her mother everything about Tweed, even her worries about his current state of mind, but she hadn't expected her to actually say anything to him about it.
Tweed, for his part, was staring at her mum with a very odd look on his face. Intense, embarrassed, relieved.
And grateful. Very grateful.
Octavia suddenly realized he had never had this. Never had a mother to tell him his feelings were normal. Barnaby was not the kind of person who would discuss such things. He was already treating Tweed as an adult when he was only five years old. Barnaby saw emotions as weakness, a viewpoint that had been impressed on Tweed from a very early age.
So who was there to tell Tweed that just because he felt it, it didn't mean it was true, that he was better than his fears, that part of life was learning to rise above them?
No one.
Except…he did have someone. He had Octavia.
That was supposed to be your job, Octavia. You're his friend.
She felt utterly ashamed. She had watched him going through all this turmoil, and all she could think about was that she preferred the old Tweed. Yes, she was worried about him, but she hadn't taken that extra step and asked him if he wanted to talk about it. She had failed him.
She turned away to hide the sudden tears in her eyes. She heard him say quietly, “Thank you Mrs. Nightingale. I appreciate that. I really do.”
The room Tweed had been provided was a tiny cabin inside an old passenger ship tied up along the perimeter of Hope Springs.
He lay in bed that night and stared at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep. Octavia's mother's words kept going round and round in his head.
Where you come from does not define who you are. You forge that path every day with your actions.
Was that true? Could he really look past what he was? Even better, could he really accept what he was? Octavia's mother seemed to think so. So did Octavia, but she was different. She'd been there when he found out. She had already accepted him.
He realized he might possibly take that for granted. She was, after all, his only friend, and he had grown so used to having her around that he didn't question her acceptance of him.
The problem was, he hadn't been able to accept who he was. He blamed others, he felt sorry for himself, he got angry and lashed out, but what had that achieved?
What if Octavia's mother was right? What if all he needed to feel like he belonged, that he had earned a right to this body, this soul, was to forge a path through life that left him proud of who he was.
Tweed smiled and put his hands behind his head. Perhaps he could be normal after all.
He closed his eyes. He had grown used to the constant creak and groan of the ship as it rose and fell with the waves. So when the long, slow creak began he didn't think much of it. It was only when he sensed the change in light that he realized someone was opening his door.
Tweed sat up. Perhaps Octavia or Elizabeth had gotten lost. All the cabin doors along the passage looked the same, after all. He tried not to even acknowledge the brief flare of hope that it might be Octavia.
“Someone's in here,” he said softly.
“I know.”
Orange light flared, crawling across the cold human features of Nehi. She stepped into the cabin. Temple followed after her, quickly closing the door and placing his lantern on the lone table in the room.
Tweed scrambled from his bed, but Nehi pointed a gun at him. It wasn't a Tesla gun. It looked like it was made from brass, with a series of concentric circles around the barrel.
Tweed dragged his eyes away from the weapon and stared at her in confusion. “How are you even here?”
“You mean why aren't we dead? We escaped the collapse. Just as you did. We've been following you since you came down to Hyperborea. You were just too stupid to notice.”
“But…why?”
“The box. Where is it?”
“Box…?” It took him a moment to realize she was talking about the box he had stolen from her room, the one that contained the plans. “The plans aren't in it anymore. Molock handed them over to his people.”
“I do not care about the plans,” snapped Nehi. “I want the box. Temple?”
Temple quickly searched the room. It didn't take him long. There weren't many places to look. The small table, a closet, and beneath the bed. This last hiding place was where Tweed had put the box. Not because he was trying to hide it, but because he just didn't want to trip over it.
Temple yanked the box out and opened it. Tweed moved a step closer and saw him flick a hidden switch. A false bottom swung up, flooding the room with bright white light. Tweed squinted as Temple pulled out a glass vial about the size of his hand. He handed it to Nehi and she slipped it
inside a leather pocket on her belt. The white light winked out, leaving Tweed blinking away fading afterimages.
“Is that…is that a soul?” he asked. “In an æther cage?” Everyone knew how the Ministry Mesmers had the ability to take souls out of the human body. Mostly to insert into automata, but also in their top secret projects, the kind that resulted in Tweed being created.
“Who…?” He stopped talking, his mind working furiously. “It was never about the blueprints,” he said slowly. “That's Nikola Tesla's soul, isn't it? You took it when you killed him. You,” he said, turning to Temple. “You used to work in the Mesmer department. I remember Chase saying something about it when we first started training with him.”
Nehi handed the gun to Temple and retreated to the doorway.
“Why?” he asked urgently. “What do you need his soul for?”
Nehi looked at Temple. “Give me a head start, then kill him.”
She disappeared into the passage. Tweed frantically searched for a means of escape. There wasn't any. The room was tiny. No room to fight. No room for anything. He sat down on his bed.
“You really are an idiot,” said Temple. “We've been one step ahead of everyone the whole time. Misdirection. That's what you learn in the Ministry. Get people looking for one thing while you walk off with the true treasure.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“No. Sorry. I'm not going to stand here and recite our plans while you try to come up with a way to escape. Suffice it to say that a new order is coming. And I for one am glad you won't be here to see it.”
Tweed threw his pillow at Temple. It was rather laughable, really. A pillow against a gun. But it hit Temple in the face, obscuring his vision. Tweed ducked and moved as the man pulled the trigger. A burst of orange light sizzled past his head and disappeared into the wall, leaving a smoking hole in its wake. He thought he heard it hiss into the ocean outside.
Tweed grabbed the gun. Temple tried to hold onto it but Tweed dug his fingers savagely into his wrist. Temple cried out, his fingers spasming open. Tweed snatched the gun and tried to turn it on him, but the man had already bolted from the room.
Tweed went after him. Temple was at the far end of the corridor already. Tweed pulled the trigger. A bolt of orange light surged along the passage, illuminating the walls as it went. Temple ducked. The bolt slammed into the wall, spreading out into a puddle of fire. Temple ducked through a doorway, clambering up the steps to the deck. Tweed swore, then ran back to his room, grabbed his blanket, and used it to put the fire out.
He followed Temple outside. It was the middle of the night. Tak'al was casting a soft white light over everything, similar to the light of the moon. Temple was scrambling up a rope ladder hanging from a flying machine about ten times the size of the skiff they had used to get here.
Tweed pointed the gun and fired. The orange light flashed into the air, hitting the bottom of the ship. It shuddered, then swung clumsily around. Tweed fired again. This time he hit a structure on top of the ship, the steering room, he thought. Flames flickered and spread. The ship surged forward, then picked up speed and soared away into the sky. Tweed shot at it, more out of frustration than anything else.
There was a commotion behind him. He turned to see Octavia and Elizabeth emerge from below.
He sighed. “We've got a big problem.”
“So the blueprints were never the goal,” said Molock. “Tesla's soul was. But why?”
“Maybe they need him, but they need him compliant,” said Octavia. “He would never agree to create some terrible super weapon for the enemy when he was alive. Maybe they're going to put his soul into a construct. Then they could force him to do their bidding.”
“Possibly,” said Molock, “but it matters not. This is not your problem anymore.”
“What do you mean?” asked Octavia.
“Our deal. You have honored your part. As much as you could. Now it is my turn to honor mine. You are all free to go. I consider you good, honest people, so I can only hope you will respect the law of our Covenant and not reveal anything about us to your people. Will you do that?”
Tweed and Octavia shared a look.
“Uh, we haven't honored anything,” said Tweed. “The deal was we help you stop Sekhem and Nehi. We haven't done that yet.”
“Yes, but you tried—”
Tweed held up a hand. “Trying means nothing. They have to be stopped, Molock. We want to help.”
Molock broke into a grin. “Excellent. I must admit I hoped you would say something like that.”
“So what do we do?” asked Octavia's mother.
“We must find out where they are gaining access to your world. It obviously wasn't back in Egypt. They had to blow up the walls in order to get their followers out. It has to be somewhere else.”
“How are we supposed to find that out?”
“I have a few contacts who might be able to help.”
“Here?” asked Tweed.
“No. Elsewhere.”
“But what will you do about this place?” asked Octavia. “What if Nehi tells others about it?”
“I will instruct my people to move. We have done it before. But let us hope we succeed, then I can reclaim my place behind the throne and we can all come home.” He smiled wistfully. “Wouldn't that be nice?”
It was four days later. Tweed was tired, cold, and bored. Oh yes, he was also irritated.
Being cooped up on a small skiff for ninety six hours, (or five thousand, seven hundred and sixty minutes), tended to do that to him. He needed alone time to decompress, to get quiet in his own mind. He craved loneliness with the same desperation he once craved companionship.
It was a bit of a dichotomy, really.
The skiff was skimming low over restless savannah. The grass was long and thin, tipped with purple fronds that made the whole area look like it was covered in heather. Strange creatures that appeared to be a cross between frogs and squirrels leapt through the grass, catching dragonflies the size of Tweed's hand with long green tongues.
At least they were close now. They were headed for a distant brown bump on the horizon, the beginning of a range of sandstone mountains. Molock had told them there was a rebel hideout there, and this was where he hoped to get the necessary intelligence they needed to track down Sekhem and Nehi.
After a few hours, the savannah gave way to scrub, then desert, the flat lands around them rising up into the foothills of the ochre mountains themselves.
Tweed noticed that Molock was looking around uneasily. Tweed scanned their surroundings, but couldn't see anything that might worry him.
“What's wrong?” he called.
“We should have been intercepted by now,” said Molock. “Our lookouts should be stationed miles out from the cliffs.”
They soon discovered the reason why. A crashed ship similar to the one Tweed had seen Nehi use. It was mangled and shredded, a pile of debris at the end of a deep furrow in the ground.
“They've been attacked,” said Molock grimly.
They found more wreckage as they headed deeper into the mountains. Tweed thought he could even make out bodies lying on the ground. Elizabeth joined Molock at the controls and put a comforting hand on his slumped shoulders.
“All these lives,” he said. “We were so close. Almost ready to challenge them. We will have to start all over again.”
“How many of your people were here?” asked Tweed.
“Hundreds. We picked it because it was defensible. Out of the way.”
“There's still hope,” said Octavia. “Perhaps some escaped.”
“Perhaps.”
Molock guided the skiff between the slowly rising peaks. The dusty ground was scattered with scree and dry weeds. He picked a circuitous route, bringing them low into a deep ravine, rocky hills rising up on both sides. They kept well below the lip of the depression, moving slowly. Even here there were signs of battle: large, smoke-smeared holes gouged out of the valley walls.
The wreckage of skiffs and larger ships littering the basin.
The ravine narrowed and closed in above them, taking them into a twisting maze that cut through the mountains. The sky was hidden from view as Molock carefully tapped and touched the controls, moving them around huge rock structures that thrust up from the ground, sailing beneath lethal overhangs that sliced across their path.
The ravine finally opened into a wide canyon. A small river wound erratically along the ravine floor, disappearing into the shadows of the mountains.
There was a large village at the edge of the valley. Or at least, the remains of one. Piles of ashes and half-burned pillars showed where houses and huts had once stood. Tweed could smell wet ash in the air, the acrid stench of old smoke.
This is what they do, he thought. You felt sorry for them, you thought you understood, but these are the kind of people they are.
Octavia glanced over at him. He could see she was thinking the same thing, the memory of their argument in the skiff fresh in her mind. Thankfully, she didn't say anything.
Tweed looked away and at that moment he heard a deep roaring sound, a heavy noise that vibrated through their bodies.
Then a huge brass and wood ship, looking like some sort of massive whale, soared over the cliffs and dropped heavily into the canyon. Tweed had a brief second to register the gun barrels pointed at them, then a bright surge of orange light was burning through the air toward them.
Molock shouted in alarm and leaned hard on the controls. The skiff banked to the right, dropping toward the ground. Tweed grabbed a seat to stop himself flying over the side. The bolts of energy sizzled past them, scoring the bottom of the skiff, and hammering into the canyon wall. Rocks and stone exploded outward. Stones and pebbles pattered into the skiff and a cloud of dust billowed up into the sky.
