by Mark Hayes
I was starting to relax a little by now. Calm, even. Letting the gentle buffeting of the airframe seep through me. That all so familiar gentle sway as the air sack moved in the wind. The occasional slight, almost indiscernible change in pitch and yaw caused by turbulence, soothing in its familiarity. I let myself listen to the distant familiar whispered groan of the engines. Keeping calm, telling myself, ‘I’m aboard an airship, nothing could be more reassuring to an airman like me.’ And this worked for a little while, I was starting to feel calm, relaxed…
‘There’s a spider in your eye.’
I sat up sharply as the pain of a dozen tiny needles seemed to clamp around my eyeball all at once. Whether that was my imagination or the thing in my eye letting its presence be known, I wasn’t sure. Though why anything thought I could forget M’s tiny mechanical monstrosity is anyone’s guess. My first instincts were to panic, which I promptly went with.
I clamped a hand over my eye in a misbegotten attempt to stem the pain. If anything, the sensation of pressure increased. Indeed, my eye felt like it was going to pop at any second.
I fell from the small cabin bed onto the hard metal of the floor plates, the jolt of pain from the impact seeming to ease the pain in my eye, or just mask it for a moment, the respite allowing me to get my bearings a little. Small victories and such.
Stumbling to my feet, I lurched across the tiny room, making for the small sink that lay against the far wall. One hand clamped over my eye, I fumbled with the other at the tap until I got the water flowing. Then I tried with panic-driven urgency to wash out my eye. Fear gripping me, the pain feeding my paranoia.
The thought hit me that the implanted spider might be malfunctioning or worse perhaps the mysterious M had decided that I wasn’t going to be useful to him after all and had turned his insidious mechanical arachnid against me.
I fought for calm as I feverishly washed at my eye with the water that was slowly starting to steam as it ran too hot. Breathing heavy, laboured breaths, I fought the urge to gouge into my eye to remove the spider, while the water only made my eye sting all the more.
Then there was a pulse of bright burning light from inside my left eye that was over in an instant. It left in its wake an after-image seared on my retina. The kind of reddish blur you get when you stare too long at an electric light or up at the sun. The pain of the light caused me to close my eye, which just made the after image more visible. I realised to my horror it wasn’t random at all. It was fuzzy and indistinct, but it was readable all the same. A clear, definite letter B.
I just had time to recover my wits before my eye exploded with light twice more, a few seconds in between each burst. O… O.
Then suddenly the pain was gone, as though the spider had released its grip. Almost as if someone had thrown off a switch. Later, looking back, I came to the conclusion that this was exactly what had happened. Somewhere M or one of his agents wanted to get my attention. To drive home a message perhaps that I was now their toy, their plaything. The pain and the light had been a reminder. Just in case I thought for even a fleeting moment that I was free of them.
As for the ‘BOO’, well it was clear to me whoever was controlling my little friend was the kind of person who thinks that jumping out on unsuspecting people while dressed in a sheet is the high point of sophisticated humour…
I remained there, holding the sink for support and stared into the greasy mirror. I let my breathing slow, with forced deep controlled breaths until I once more felt calm enough and relaxed enough to let go of the cold porcelain of the sink.
Once I was back in control of myself, I ran wet fingers through my hair in a forlorn effort to straighten it out. All the while I was staring at the mirror, my point of focus my own left eye. The iris was wrong, fully black with no hint of blue. A dark window into my soul, which something else was choosing to call home. It still hurt, with the ghosting after-pain of the light, but it was at least starting to ease off a little.
Then, while I stared, I swore I saw movement across the iris. A shadow’s passing. I shuddered. The alien presence in my own eye disturbed me more than I could tell. I fought the urge to panic once more. Forcing myself to remain calm, I found myself wondering what the spider really was.
Could they see what I saw through its gemstone eyes? Was that how they sought to control me, their insurance as M called it? That and the burning light it produced. For all I knew it could even have a small explosive charge. It wouldn’t need to be much, enough to punch a hole in my skull. It was perfectly placed to do that, after all. To be honest, it didn’t matter if it did or not. It wasn’t like I’d be prepared to take the risk.
It was all too strange. The whole concept would’ve seemed fanciful to me. Something manmade, so small it could fit in your eye, see what you saw. Communicate with you after a fashion. Inflict pain, even kill you. Insane, ridiculous, unthinkable, leastways were I not the one with the spider in my eye. But I was the one with the spider. So instead of being simply fanciful, it was instead terrifying.
The memory of the painful light that had so recently abated was still fresh with me. I’d no doubt they could turn it back on whenever they wished. Even if by some miracle I found some way to remove the spider, how could I do so without them knowing? And if they were capable of such devices in the first place, would it even matter if I did?
That thought sank in. I realised now I was nothing more than The Ministry’s puppet, or perhaps more correctly The Ministry’s slave. For a passing moment, the noose seemed like it might have been the better after all…
‘But,’ I reasoned, ‘the thing about being alive is, well, it’s always preferable to the alternative.’
I closed my eyes and let myself relax some more. Dwelling on the spider was getting me nowhere. I needed to switch focus. I needed to do something to take my mind off the damn thing, anything in all honesty.
Taking a heavy breath, I took a moment to examine the tiny cabin that I’d found myself in properly, and get some bearings on where I was. I didn’t recognise the layout. For a start, it was too luxurious. Not that it was a five-star cabin on a transcontinental liner, but it was far removed from the low-rank officer quarters I used to share in the navy. Instead of double bunks with heavy course military grade blankets to be shared in rotation by watch officers, there was a single reasonable size bed with white, if slightly faded, linen, trimmed with parallel blue lines. The small porthole over the bed had the same blue-trimmed linen curtains. The walls were painted in an off cream that may have once been bright white a few years earlier. It was an improvement on the standard navy grey paint I was used to coating every flat surface. The whole cabin had an aged quality to it. Right down to the discoloured taps on the sink, which had once, no doubt, gleamed in chrome. It was neat and well maintained all the same. Some old ship, a passenger liner of some kind, I suspected. Not that this nugget of information brought me any closer to knowing where I was, beyond aboard a moving airship in the sky somewhere.
In the hopes of gaining some answers, I opened the small closet and found a uniform hanging within. Not one of the dark blues of Her Royal unamused Royal Air Navy. Instead, it was a somewhat faded red with gold braid trim. Colours I recognised, and groaned inwardly, as those of the East India Company. To be more exact the colours of EICAN, as the badge on the arm proclaimed.
The implication of the uniform was obvious to me. I was clearly en route to India and for god only knows what reason The Ministry wanted me ensconced within the EIC’s air naval arm. You can imagine just how well that sat with a RAN man like myself.
For all my faults and despite my recent disgrace, I considered myself still to be a member of the finest service in the Empire. Which I was technically, even if that technicality was that they never bothered to actually dismiss me.
The Royal Air Navy has a tradition going back over a hundred years. While the Army has won its honours on the field, and the senior service its honours at sea, it’s the RAN that really maintained th
e power of the Empire. Which was a matter of some pride amongst my brother airmen. To become an officer in the RAN is a goal for many a young man, and perhaps we who are, tend towards arrogance. Certainly, it leads to the odd scuffle in bars with officers of the other services, the occasional friendly argument or two. But at least our rivalry with the other services is a rivalry among near equals. Whereas officers in the East India Company, on the other hand… well everyone knew that was where you went if you couldn’t afford a commission in the real services. The Company was a place for adventurers, ne’er do wells, and washed up failures, not true officers and gentlemen. Every service agreed on that point.
It may seem petty all things considered, but even in disgrace, I counted myself better than EICAN. Even if, as I tried to remind myself, playing the part of a Company officer was a step up from being a corpse dancing the Tyburn jig.
‘You’re still alive, Harry, remember that…’ I consoled myself.
This period of reflection upon my lot passed and I determined I should go and explore the ship The Ministry had seen fit to plant me on. And if I was going to explore the ship, it made sense to get dressed properly first.
‘And while you’re at it, Harry old boy, may as well make some effort at looking a tad more respectable…’ I thought. ‘Even if it means wearing a bloody East India Company uniform. It beats stalking the corridors in nothing but long johns.’ Which, I considered, may raise a few too many eyebrows.
The possibility that I may have been installed as an officer on that very ship struck me. But I dismissed it. No captain worth his salt would take a new crewman aboard without them being vetted by him first. Particularly in the case of an officer. It may not always be their choice, politics of the fleet and all that, but to have an officer foisted upon you by the Admiralty was considered a slight in the service and the same was no doubt true of any civilian liner. To have said officer not report to you on his arrival would be considered just plain insolence. So it seemed far more likely I was merely a passenger for once, which was a slightly odd idea for an air-man such as myself. I still wanted to know more about the craft I was flying aboard.
Resolved to find out exactly what ship I was on and where it was taking me, I started to dress. I was at least pleasantly surprised that the uniform was cut to the right size, though it has to be said it was a little loose around the britches and stomach. I suspected though that was down to the weight I’d lost while incarcerated. It was, however, neither of the quality nor the cut I was used to. As every other officer in Her Royal Shortness’s armed forces does, I bought my uniforms on Savile Row. Appearances are important after all. It doesn’t do to merely be an officer. One has to look like one. But it struck me that standards in the Company were doubtless more lax in this regard. Probably because when you’re a second class navy, you got used to making do with second class everything. I found it vexing all the same. Did I mention vanity was one of my flaws?
That said, once dressed, I examined myself in the mirror, and I cut a reasonable dash, I must say. True, I looked somewhat haggard and drawn thanks to my recent existence on prison rations. I was also in need of a shave, my hair was a tragedy, and I’d have cheerfully killed for some moustache wax. All things considered though, I could have looked a lot worse.
A short search of the closet revealed a gentleman’s vanity kit, much to my delight. Devoid of moustache wax, unfortunately, but with everything else I required to make myself presentable. Resolved by this, I divested myself of my jacket once more, rolled up my sleeves and filled the sink. I then set about lathering my face for the first decent shave in weeks. Admittedly I’d have rather have visited a decent Turkish barber, but small victories and all that.
I’d just happily raised the cutthroat to the place it was named for, when I heard the key turning in the door and the creak of the handle.
I spun round alarmed, razor in hand, thick foam dripping from my chin, which speaks perhaps of the nervousness that resided at my core right then. I was, however, ready to defend myself as best I could, all the indignity of the last few days boiling up inside of me at once and if someone was going to assail me, then this once I was ready for them.
The door swung open, and there followed an ear-splitting scream. Surprisingly it was not my own.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” said a mousey-haired cabin maid, furtively collecting both her wits and the clean set of towels she’d dropped to the floor on entering my cabin. She seemed somewhat shaken, but in fairness finding herself facing a snarling man, covered in shaving foam, holding a razor aggressively, probably came as a shock, and she looked a timid sort.
Luckily her reaction and the time it took to recover the towels covered my own embarrassment long enough for me to collect my shredded wits. ‘Steady yer’self Harry…’ I remember chiding myself. ‘Thrown out of sorts, by a chambermaid of all people, that’s a story not to tell…’
Yes I am aware of the irony, but I am being honest here, and it speaks of my state of mind at the time.
“It’s perfectly fine,” I told her snappily. I was a little irritated, though mostly with myself. I’d all but roared at the girl as she entered. I was living on my nerves, but that was a poor excuse. Regardless, I was being short-tempered, and she bore the brunt of it. I should’ve been slightly ashamed of myself, though in light of later events, not so much.
“I was told all the passengers were dining at noon, sir, or I’d have knocked,” she explained. Her accent held a hint of the East End, which she was trying to disguise as best she could. No doubt to seem a better class of scullion, I would posit. Most people, in fairness to her, wouldn’t have noticed, but I’d the benefit of having hidden my own Southward accent for years. I could recognise the odd dropped vowel for what they were hiding.
“I’m afraid I slept late. Just drop the towels on the bed, lass. I shall sort them out after I’ve shaved,” I replied in a half-hearted effort to mollify her. She looked caught between trying to smile and trying not to look flustered. Failing on both counts, she dropped the towels again while trying to get them to the bed.
‘Must be new,’ I mused, due to her apparent ineptitude at so simple a task.
Partly out of a desire not to embarrass the poor girl further, and conscious of the shaving foam dripping from my chin, I turned back to the sink and commenced shaving my cheek, doing my best to see clearly in the steamy mirror.
I blame that steamy mirror for what happened next. If the room had had a bit more ventilation, she wouldn’t have got the drop on me.
As it was, I almost sliced my cheek open with the razor when I felt the snub of her pistol in the small of my back.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
The Washbowl Interrogation
“Don’t turn around, Mr Smyth,” she said, the cold steel of her pistol nestling in my lower back.
That pistol was enough of a reason not to move. I’d no delusions about that. She didn’t have to be a great shot, or even vaguely competent, to kill me from that range. Indeed, I rather hoped she was an expert as that lessened the chance of the gun going off by mistake. On the whole, I’d far rather I be killed on purpose than by mistake any day. It’s true enough that dead is dead, when all is said and done, but at least if she meant to kill me, I’d be dead for a good reason. Though not being shot at all was still my preferred option.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied, trying to sound unshaken by this turn of events. There may have been a quiver to my voice as I spoke, but stiff upper lip be damned. Frankly, I was rather sick of finding myself at the wrong end of one situation or another. It was starting to grate on my nerves a little.
“Continue with your shave, by all means. I am sure a man of your reputation for villainous endeavour is used to keeping a cool head under pressure,” she goaded.
I can’t say I agreed with her assessment. My hand felt anything but steady as I scraped the edge of the blade down my cheek. Though shaving gave me something to focus on that was not the gun in my back.
I bit back the desire to make a wit-laden reply, having no real yearning to antagonise the woman, whoever she was. Call it a symptom of my long incarceration, waking up not knowing where I was, and having a mechanical spider in my eye, but I was feeling cautious.
“That’s it, smooth steady strokes… Now, so we understand each other, Mr Smyth, you’re not to turn around. I’m sure that the ‘Ministry’ will have fitted you with one of Mr Gates’ little toys. Do keep your eyes on your reflection. I have no doubt you’re rather proud of it, you seem the type…” she said.
I narrowly avoided nicking myself when she mentioned the ‘little toy’. Yet I found myself less than surprised she knew of it. She knew my name, after all. That should have been surprise enough.
There was something else, I realised as I cleaned lather off the razor, her accent had changed dramatically. No longer did she seem to be hiding East End vowels. Instead, it had been replaced with an American drawl, though I couldn’t distinguish which part of America. Not that it made a great deal of difference which petty dictatorship she was working for. None of them had much reason to be fond of the British; we’d done nothing to help prevent the fall of the union after all. Indeed there were rumours the opposite was true, but well, there are always rumours I guess…