Fogbound- Empire in Flames

by Gareth Clegg

  She frowned, weighing up her options, then did as he suggested. The officer’s voice called from around the edge of the building.

  “Come now, Rosemary, you can’t escape. Surely you would prefer to live? I have my orders, and it makes little difference to me, but you should think of the Empire.”

  Simmons stepped around the corner, rifle pointed at the man just ten feet distant. The officer’s smile slid from his face as he evaluated this new situation.

  “Ah, the accomplice. Dragged from your hidey-hole to fight like a man at last.”

  “Stay where you are and keep your hands in sight.”

  “I’m not sure how she found you, and I don’t care. You know you are being used, don’t you?” he gave Simmons a knowing smile. “She will discard you like she has all the others once she is finished with you, when you’ve played your part, and are of no more use.”

  “Enough talk. Didn’t anyone—”

  The officer vanished. One moment there, the next gone.

  Simmons stood for a second, dumbfounded, then every fibre of his body told him to move. He hit the ground, rolled and came up facing the other direction, expecting the cold steel embrace of a duelling sabre in his neck, but everything was silent.

  The scream shook him from his confusion, he rushed toward it to find the officer holding Annabelle from behind, her head pulled back, and his pistol pressed against her temple.

  “Oh shut up, you troublesome witch.” The officer thrust her left side into the wall, and Annabelle gasped in pain. “You,” he said, looking at Simmons, “put down that weapon, or I will kill her, here and now.”

  Simmons was stuck. Between the Devil and the deep blue sea, wasn’t that what they said? This kind of man wouldn’t keep his word. As soon as he dropped his rifle, the man would shoot him, another problem removed from the equation. If he didn’t drop it, he would shoot her, and then try to kill him.

  As good as Simmons was, the officer held Annabelle way too close to make shooting him a realistic option. So he did the only thing he could.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m putting it down. Don’t hurt her.”

  He dropped the rifle then stood, holding his hand out in a placating motion. The officer smirked as he oriented the pistol on him. “Bloody idiot.”

  “Simmons, duck,” came a voice from behind him and he took the advice, throwing himself to the ground.

  A shot rang out from the pistol towards the dark shape rounding the corner behind them. There was a brief hum, and a bark of electrical discharge as an Arc-Rifle fired.

  The beam of intense energy missed both the officer and Annabelle by two feet.

  No, Simmons thought. No, No, No.

  The shot hit the tomb behind the officer and rebounded, striking the centre of his back. He and Annabelle flew forward and landed hard on the muddy earth. The officer’s back was a smouldering ruin of charred flesh and burnt clothing, his body still spasming from the electrical discharge. Annabelle lay sprawled a few feet away, but with a pained moan, she seemed to be trying to rise.

  Simmons looked up at the familiar face offering him a hand.

  “Bazalgette? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Well, I came to pay my respects to Mister Cooper. Thought it only right,” Bazalgette said matter-of-factly. “Truth be told, I couldn’t get the idea of his murder out of my head. How someone could remain unseen while killing him. The pocket watch stuck in my mind, and I’ve been trying to work out how it’s all connected. It’s got to be some form of time distortion—”

  “All right,” Simmons said. “I don’t need your entire thesis. What happened to you here at the ceremony?”

  “When all hell broke loose with those Black Guards, I slipped towards the back of the mausoleum. I thought I better lie low till all the excitement finished.”

  “And the arc-rifle?”

  “Well, one of the soldiers cornered me. I told him I was just paying my respects, but he wasn’t having any of it. He cuffed me with the butt of his rifle and then threatened to shoot me if I didn’t tell him the truth. So I did the only thing I could think of.” He rubbed the right side of his face, which had an angry bruise forming.

  “Which was?” Simmons prompted.

  “I jabbed him with the arc-lamp. I thought if they can use arc technology with their rifles then so can I.”

  “You electrocuted him with your lamp?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say electrocuted,” Bazalgette said, “more of a severe shock, enough to knock him unconscious.”

  “By hell, next you’ll be telling me you intended to miss with the arc-rifle.”

  “Well,” Bazalgette looked a little hurt. “It’s physics. I didn’t want to risk injuring the young lady, so I reasoned that the angle of incident would be the same as—”

  Simmons laughed. “Stop there. You’re a damned marvel. A strange but brilliant marvel.”

  “Well, it’s nothing really. I didn’t expect it to preserve quite so much force from the reflection. Should we perhaps see if the young lady is all right?”

  Simmons smiled and shook his head as Bazalgette pulled him to his feet.

  “Yes, I suppose we should.”

  Annabelle’s eyes rolled, and she almost fell as Simmons helped her to her feet.

  “Whoa there,” Simmons said. “How are you feeling?”

  She took a few seconds to steady herself. “Like I was kicked in the back by a horse.”

  “Sorry about that,” Bazalgette said, “but it was rather a difficult situation.”

  She brushed at the mud on her dress but must have realised it was futile. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “My name is Simmons, and this fellow here is Bazalgette.” Bazalgette tipped his hat and shivered as the rain washed down the back of his neck. Simmons smiled. “You’re my goddaughter. I’m here to help you with whatever problem you have become entangled in.”

  “Goddaughter?” she said. “I don’t remember you.”

  “It was a long time ago—you were just a baby. I’ve been in India for the last seventeen years, but I’m here now. We’ll sort this out.”

  The girl narrowed her eyes, taking a step back. “I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve here, Mr Simmons, but…” Her voice changed, returning with a harsher edge to it. “You should tell me exactly who you are, and why you are looking for me.”

  “I’m Pelham Simmons, a registered man catcher, sent to investigate your disappearance. Your father, Edward Pemberton, asked me to find you.” The words were out before Simmons realised what he was saying.

  Annabelle paused, processing the information he’d blurted out.

  “What just happened?” Simmons asked.

  The girl ignored the question. “I don’t know who this Pemberton is, but he’s not my father. He died a while back.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “I should be,” she replied. “I dissected the old bastard.”

  In the stunned silence, Annabelle surveyed the broken and charred remains of the Black Guard officer and the carnage around the tomb. “Perhaps we should seek shelter? It doesn’t seem that the rain will let up any time soon.” She gave the body a solid kick which elicited no response. Satisfied, she stalked away.

  Simmons looked over to Bazalgette. “Could you escort the young lady to the mausoleum, see if the roof is still watertight? I need a moment.”

  “Of course,” said Bazalgette and jogged to catch up with her.

  Simmons thoughts were whirling. He pushed them to one side and knelt to inspect the officer’s body, trying to focus on the present. He rolled the face-down corpse over, the sickly-sweet smell of burnt meat diminishing as it flopped onto its back with a wet thud. From the man’s jacket hung a delicate silver chain to an ornate pocket watch which was open and caked in thick mud by his hand. The filigree work peeked out through the layers of grime, but it was recognisable from the urchin’s description at the Britannia pub. If this wasn’t that same timepiece, then i
t was a stunning copy.

  Simmons unhooked the chain, transferring the watch to his inside pocket. He inspected the man’s pistol. The angular design identified it as a Mauser, German-made and a very new design—the latest desirable firearm for discerning young officers. A box magazine in front of the trigger guard fed the semi-automatic weapon and, as Simmons had witnessed, it had a remarkable rate of fire. The officer’s belt held four vertical strip clips, each with ten rounds. Simmons took them all.

  He was about to stand, but there was something in the man’s ear. A closer look revealed an earplug, similar to those worn by artillerymen. Simmons checked the officer’s other ear, but it was empty. He moved to another of the guardsmen and found the same style of grey plugs in both ears. What’s that all about? He rose, moving to meet the others inside the mausoleum.

  The exterior of the structure had been impressive, but the interior was breathtaking. Intricate black patterns covered a central circle on the floor, surrounded by a checkerboard extending to the edges of the room. Raised plinths stood on the walls, each designed to house the caskets of the Cooper family. Above them, bass relief angels carved in pristine white marble, every curve and crease captured in astonishing detail. The one on the far wall showed an ascending angel with a child cradled in a protective embrace.

  His eyes tracked up to the vaulted ceiling where more carvings lined the inside of the Egyptian style needle forcing its way up and away from the realm of mortals.

  “Ah, Simmons,” Bazalgette said. “There must have been some misunderstanding. Let me introduce Miss Elizabeth Cooper, Silas Cooper’s sister.”

  “That might be a little difficult,” Simmons said.

  A frown passed across Bazalgette’s features. “How so?”

  “Do you want to answer that?” Simmons asked the woman, “or should I?”

  She stared back, eyes intense, but remained silent.

  “Very well,” Simmons continued. “Elizabeth Cooper was indeed our dear departed Mr Cooper’s sister, but she died during the invasion. I’ve seen the files.”

  Bazalgette turned back towards the young lady. “But you said—”

  “Does it matter what I said?” Her manner was cold, clinical.

  Bazalgette looked a little flustered. “So, who is she?”

  “Now, that’s the right question,” said Simmons. “Pray enlighten us, Miss Cooper. Who are you, and what are you doing here at this funeral?”

  Simmons drew the photograph from his jacket, opening it to show her image. “This is you, isn’t it? Annabelle Pemberton.”

  She gazed at the image, a slight frown growing across her brow. “Well, it looks like me, but that’s not my name.”

  “So, who are you? This Rosemary Carrington, the Black Guard were looking for?”

  “No, no, NO!” There was hatred in her voice as she almost screamed the last syllable. “Not that filthy bitch, pulling tricks that would make the sleaziest whore blush, just to keep up appearances for those Inner-City gentlemen.” She spat the last word, real venom in her. “By special invitation only, of course. What would her father say? Well, perhaps he’d say nothing and let it continue while he cowered upstairs out of earshot. Let them prod and poke her while they strapped her to that infernal machine. Burn and brand, cut and slice, oh their fun went on for hours, days sometimes. And their slimy limbs pawing at her and those eyes, so many eyes boring into her soul, unable to break contact from those blackened pits. The screaming. Oh the screaming, she thought it would never stop. Never.”

  Her voice caught, and she faltered, almost sobbing. Her face hardened, and she wiped the unshed tear from a watery eye. “But she’s gone now. Gone, far away. You should call me Rosie.”

  Simmons and Bazalgette stood there in stunned silence, the heavy pattering of the rain beating the ground outside.

  “So, Rosie,” Simmons said, voice gentle. “What are you doing here? Who is Silas Cooper to you? Do you have any idea of the danger you are facing?”

  “Oh, I’m well aware of what is going on,” Rosie replied with a smile. “The question is, Mr Simmons, are you?”

  “We need to get out of here,” Simmons said. “When the Black Guard find out what’s happened, there will be hell to pay.”

  “You’ll have no argument from me,” Bazalgette said.

  Rosie looked at the coffin on the right-hand side of the mausoleum, then up at the two men. “I’d like to say a few words before I go.”

  Simmons nodded.

  “In private?” It wasn’t a question, but an invitation for them to give her some space.

  “Of course,” Bazalgette said, stepping into the torrential rain. “We’ll leave you to it.” Simmons followed.

  Dark clouds filled the heavy sky, but at least the thunder seemed to have receded into the distance. The howling wind drove the rain into their exposed flesh, and Simmons looked down at his left hand as it gave a painful twinge.

  The leather of the glove near his wrist had all but melted away, leaving an angry, raw burn that the icy droplets stabbed at like a thousand tiny needles. He’d seen what the arc-rifle had done to the Black Guard officer and thought he should count himself lucky he still had a hand to worry about.

  He pulled a silver hip flask from his belt. After taking a mouthful, he poured a splash onto his wrist, sucking the damp air in through his teeth as the burning intensified, then offered it across to Bazalgette.

  “Are you all right?” Bazalgette asked.

  “Yes, it’s nothing, just a burn.”

  Bazalgette approached to get a closer look. “I don’t know—it looks rather unpleasant.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, but I think we established your lack of medical credentials the other night at the Britannia.”

  “Well, there’s no need to be like that.”

  Simmons sighed and reached into a belt pouch, producing a strip of bandage. In this light, it almost looked clean but was more grey than white. He peeled the last remnants of the melted glove from his tender flesh, most of it lifting and pulling at the oozing wound. Gritting his teeth, he pulled it clear in a single swift motion, thinking it better just to get it done with.

  The pain was intense. He gasped, blood welling around the edge of the raw and angry flesh. He tried to wrap the bandage, but with his other gloved hand, it was a farce.

  Bazalgette reached towards him. “Let me do that.”

  “I’m fine,” Simmons said through clenched teeth.

  “Yes, I can see that.” Bazalgette grabbed the strip of material from Simmons’ grasp and placed it over the wound, winding the rest around his wrist. He finished tying it in a very reasonable attempt at a field dressing.

  “Thank you,” Simmons barked, almost sounding thankful.

  “You’re welcome,” Bazalgette said with unreasonable civility.

  Simmons wasn’t sure if Bazalgette was trying to annoy him. Damn, but he was infuriating.

  “So, did you ever get into combat during your military service?”

  “Of course I did,” Simmons replied, the indignance in his tone harsh even to his ears.

  “So how is it you’re so bad at looking after yourself, did you never get wounded?”

  “That’s what bloody corpsmen are for, and medical orderlies, isn’t it?”

  Bazalgette turned a stern gaze on Simmons, then burst out laughing. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “Sorry, Bazalgette. I’m a misery when I can’t sort simple problems out. I’ve had people to do all this for me for so long, that sometimes the smallest thing irritates me if I can’t do it myself.”

  “We each have our moments.”

  “We need to get moving,” Simmons said, looking up at the dark sky. “Even if we make good time back to the city, the fog may already be rising.”

  Bazalgette cast his eyes over the scene of destruction. Crows were picking at the corpses, their brethren egging them on from the treeline with caws and croaks. “I don’t believe this…”

  “It will be all right,
” Simmons replied, tapping Bazalgette on the shoulder. “We’ll sort things out.”

  “How? These are the Black Guard. They’re dead. We killed them.” Bazalgette’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I killed them.”

  “Well, they didn’t give us much choice, did they?”

  Bazalgette’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed. “Is that supposed to make me feel better about it?”

  “Oh hell,” Simmons said, his eyes widening, and he took off towards the rear of the mausoleum.

  “What is it?” Bazalgette shouted, following.

  Simmons stood behind the structure, the rain beating down on him in waves.

  “Simmons. What’s the matter?” Bazalgette called as he rounded the corner almost running into his stationary comrade.

  Simmons’ voice was low. “Where’s the one you stunned with your arc-lamp?”

  “He was over—”, Bazalgette gestured to the back of the next tomb. Towards the bare ground behind it. “Oh, bugger.”

  Simmons pushed Bazalgette and Rosie to make good progress as they left by the northern exit. It took a little longer to cut around to the east, but it kept them off the most direct approach to the cemetery. One that any Black Guard reinforcements were likely to take.

  The rain continued its steady drumbeat on his hat as they moved over the cracked cobble remains of what had once been a primary thoroughfare towards the capital.

  Bazalgette was quiet, but Simmons noticed he’d liberated an arc-rifle and fashioned a makeshift cover from one of the Black Guards long jackets. It hung over his shoulder as he traipsed along behind them.

  “So, Rosie, what is your association with Cooper?” he asked as they walked.

  “He was a friend when I needed one,” she replied. “And yes, I am sad that he is no longer with us, regardless of what you think of me.”

  “I’m not judging you,” he said. “I don’t even know you.”