Lady Jessica, Monster Hunter - Episode 1: Heart Of The Empire

by Keith Dumble

'I SHALL STAY here.' Atsu busied herself watering the large potted geranium on the window ledge.

  'You're sure?' Jessica adjusted her hat, fixing it in place with a silver pin. She had changed clothes: a purple velvet jacket over a cream taffeta dress which billowed out over her underskirts. Her sword was, as ever, concealed within the handle of her black lace parasol.

  'Yes,' said Atsu. 'London is too busy for me, Jessica.'

  Jessica nodded, not pressing the matter further. Though the Capital was one of the most cosmopolitan places in the Empire, visitors from the Japans were rare. And, in some quarters, only barely tolerated. 'Very well, Atsu. Flint and I shall not be long.'

  She thought about asking Atsu about her eyes again. Jessica was used to seeing her navigator with the blank, white pupils that were a side effect of her power, but had never seen them as they had been last night. Like crimson marbles, glinting in the lights of the aerodrome as the Zephyr had completed its descent. Atsu had been unable to recall a thing, being surprised when her eyes had returned to normal and Jessica had asked her what she had meant.

  An approaching storm, thought Jessica. It wouldn't be the first time.

  'Ready?' Flint strode into the room, wearing his scuffed brown leather greatcoat over a blue and white striped waistcoat and red flannel trousers. His blonde hair flowed down from beneath his black homburg. He looked half gentleman, half privateer. Which, Jessica supposed, was fairly close to the truth.

  'One moment, William.' She opened her bag and put the pistol inside, placing it between a folded silk handkerchief and a small mirror. 'One can't be too careful,' she said. 'Not with the protesters running amok in the streets.'

  'And, perhaps, also those they protest against.' Flint winked, the lines beside his eyes creasing in deep wrinkles. He put out his elbow. 'Well, Jessica. Shall we?'

  Jessica slipped her hand through his arm and turned to Atsu. 'Ask Tommy to take a look at the propellor when he gets back, will you?' Atsu nodded, her hooped earrings jangling. 'It's taking a little too long to get going for my liking.'

  'Oh, really!' The Zephyr sounded hurt. 'It's just this damnable weather, that's all.'

  'Weather or no, I can't afford to be stranded on the ground should we need to lift off in a hurry. Just a precaution, you understand.'

  She was still uncomfortable talking to something which was little more than a machine. Though Tommy had explained the reason why each ship carried a Figurehead, Jessica could not help but view them as unnatural. Hypocritical even, given the remit of the Diamonds.

  The hangar was cool as she and Flint descended the Zephyr's retractable steps onto the stone floor. The smell of oil hung heavy in the air; the clanking and pumping from the refuelling stations drowning out any attempt at conversation. She waited until they had walked outside, where the weight of the London smog did little to improve the atmosphere. A faint ghost of a disc in the sky to the east told her it was morning, though the thick pall did its best to obscure everything, not least the time of day.

  'Not the most pleasant morning for a walk.' Flint tilted his head up to the sky. Jessica imagined him standing on the deck of his ship in the Caribbean, surging through crystal clear waters. Flint was finding being back in civilisation hard to adjust to.

  'Indeed not. Come, we'll take the train.' Jessica led them towards a tall red brick building, where the words "Clapham Aerodrome" were shining through the haze in foot-high gaslit letters.

  The tiles inside the station gleamed in the light of the phosphor lamps hung high above. The place was a bustle of activity: passengers bound for the skies descending on one escalator; those heading for the heart of the city rising on the other. Jessica and Flint bought tickets from the dispenser, then joined the queue slowly filing towards the platform.

  'So many people in one place. It's a wonder there is any air left to breathe.' Flint took a deep breath, his nose immediately wrinkling. 'And by the smell of it, a good amount of that air is recycled.'

  'It is far from my favourite place either, William. I grew up in the country, remember.'

  'How could I forget?' Flint raised his hat, his eyes twinkling. 'M'lady.'

  'Oh be quiet. Now, don't trip over the top of the escalator like you did last time.'

  They moved forward onto the platform. The ceiling curved above them, a tunnel yawning into the darkness at either end. A pair of blackened iron tracks separated them from the platform opposite, where lines of passengers awaited the arrival of the southbound train.

  Jessica glanced at the advertisements plastered over the walls. The usual assortment of posters promoting cure-alls and the latest scientific inventions for the home. The large portrait of the Queen stared down sternly from amongst the garish bills, a crest above her head emblazoned with the word "VIGILANCE".

  Jessica glanced up at the ticker, its myriad of diodes scrolling through the headlines of the day. She noticed Flint staring intensely at the device, his lips moving and his forehead creased in concentration.

  'Police clash with protesters in Hammersmith,' she said. Flint relaxed, turning to look at her instead of at the ticker. The next headline slid into view. 'Victory in Postdam... Killing in Whitechapel...'

  'Seldom any good news, eh?'

  The headlines had begun to repeat. Jessica stood aside to let a governess and two little boys dressed in sailor suits walk past. 'Indeed not, William. Indeed not.'

  'That's more to my liking.' Flint pointed to a poster on the wall beside them, which featured an engraved illustration of a trio of women posing like Greek statues. The artist's impression of their clothing left little to the imagination. 'What's it for?'

  'Salome's Palace of Earthly Nymphs,' said Jessica, reading the large-printed letters above the illustration. 'A theatrical show, William.'

  'I don't suppose we'll have time, will we?' He pushed up the brim of his hat and looked pleadingly at her.

  'I doubt it very much. Appleton has our next mission awaiting us.'

  'I should try being less wicked.' Flint smirked. 'Having no rest really is rather tiresome.'

  Jessica laughed, then moved forward with the rest of the passengers as the northbound train emerged from the tunnel. They waited until the doors ground open, then stepped into the carriage. All the seats were taken, so they stood close to the door, wedged between the other occupants. It was uncomfortably warm; everyone seemed to be making a concerted effort not to look at each other.

  'This won't take long.' Jessica saw Flint was uneasy, a trickle of sweat running down his forehead. 'If we have time, perhaps we can walk back.' He coughed and nodded, his knuckles white as he gripped the handrail.

  Londoners were an odd lot, she thought, regarding her fellow passengers. Several of the men were sporting black tinted monocles, all the rage since the Prince Consort had been seen wearing one at Lords a few weeks ago. The women's clothing was equally voguish: a rainbow mishmash of colours, with corsets daringly worn over dresses, rather than underneath.

  The train clanked off from the station. It gathered speed as it entered the tunnel, the draught from the small windows above their heads giving some modicum of respite from the heat.

  Jessica stared at her reflection in the window. Next to the London dandies and ladies, she looked positively dowdy. Her hat was two or three seasons old, and her high-necked dress made her look more like some aged spinster rather than a daring young airship commander of the Empire. Perhaps she would ask Appleton for a little leave, she thought. Then she could pay a visit to the grand boutiques of Knightsbridge...

  She looked away from her own reflection, then gave a start. In the black mirror-like surface of the window, she could see a young man with a thick black beard and eyes like coal pits staring at her. As he noticed her attention, he quickly averted his gaze and turned up the collar of his heavy woollen coat. Then, as the train emerged from the darkness of the tunnel, the reflection of the carriage's interior was replaced by a view of the city speeding past.

  The train tilted as
the track curved to the north towards Westminster. On the streets beneath the viaduct, Jessica could see citizens going about their daily business: pulling carts between warehouses, selling goods from stalls and trays lining the pavements, and busying themselves with the seemingly eternal cycle of eking out an existence in the Capital. Jessica closed her eyes, thankful yet again for her life spent soaring high above it all.

  'For the fallen!'

  Jessica whirled round. Flint's hand was reaching inside his greatcoat, where his revolver was holstered. Cries and screams from the other passengers.

  A space had appeared around the man who had been staring at her. His face was twisted into a maniacal sneer, flecks of spittle at his lips. He was holding his coat open with both hands, revealing the thing which had so terrified the other occupants of the carriage.

  A large white clock face, connected by a pair of spiralling wires to two stubby red cylinders which Jessica recognised immediately as dynamite.

  Flint had his revolver pointed directly at the man's head. Jessica flicked the switch on the handle of her parasol, ready to unsheath her sword.

  'Stay back!' More screams from the passengers as the man yelled. A woman close beside him was crying, her tears creating milky wet tracks down her powdered face. 'Back, or I blow us all to hell!'

  Jessica glanced out of the window. The train was passing over the docks, heading towards the broad green sweep of the Thames. 'What do you want?' she said. All heads turned to look at her.

  'Vengeance!' The bomber shook his head, as if telling a voice inside to be quiet. 'No! Justice!' He took a step towards them, his thumb poised over a red button at the top of the device strapped to his chest.

  'This is not the way of justice.' Jessica's voice was calm. 'Don't do this, it's not worth it.' She could see the funnels of ships through the window behind him.

  'Let me tell you about worth. Of how much your so-called glorious Empire considered my brothers and sisters to be worth!'

  'Whatever happened to your brothers and sisters, it is not these innocent people's fault.'

  'Innocent?' He spat, glaring at the other passengers. 'You are all guilty, all of you. As guilty as your devil of a Queen!'

  The sound of the train's wheels changed as they clattered onto Vauxhall Bridge.

  The man stared at Jessica. A flicker in his eyes, as though a switch had been flicked inside his mind. He gritted his teeth.

  Jessica tensed.

  Then, in one swift motion, she whipped her sword from the parasol, lunged forward and skewered the man through the back of the hand.

  He screamed in pain, clutching his wound. Jessica darted towards him, grasping for the dynamite.

  His face was contorted in rage. He quickly stepped aside. Jessica almost fell, knocking into a startled young man whose black-tinted monocle popped out of his face.

  'May your conscience judge you in hell!' The bomber reached back to the device on his chest and pressed the button. The hand on the clock face started to move, ticking from eleven to twelve.

  Five seconds.

  Jessica leapt, grabbing him round the waist and flinging him to the ground. She clutched the bomb, ripping it from his chest.

  Four.

  He brought up his fist, slamming it into the side of her jaw. A tooth loose in her mouth. The taste of blood. He grabbed the sleeve of Jessica's jacket, holding her fast.

  Three.

  His eyes bulged and his grip loosened as she brought her knee up hard between his legs.

  Two.

  Jessica darted towards the window. Then threw the bomb outside, down towards the Thames below.

  One.

  The train rocked from the impact of the blast. Jessica looked down. The spray of water from the explosion cascaded back down onto the brackish green surface of the river.

  Cheering from the passengers behind her. She spat out her tooth and turned round. Flint was kneeling, his revolver pointed at the bomber's head. The man was sprawled on the carriage floor, motionless.

  Flint looked up at her and shook his head.

  'He's dead, Jessica.'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Next Mission