Amidst Dark Satanic Mills (Folkestone & Hand Interplanetary Steampunk Adventures Book 2)

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “Eck attracted too much attention!” he shouted.

  “It will be attributed to anarchists.” Bellaseus said mildly. “It always is. The deaths will be laid at their doorstep, including those of Forgeron and the French policeman, Roget.”

  “Those deaths are meaningless!” Khallimar snapped.

  “Forgeron was a traitor,” Bellaseus pointed out.

  “How do you know he was alone in his betrayal?”

  “There was no indication of anything else,” Bellaseus said. “As for Inspector Roget, he should have had an accident long ago, but his importance was infinitesimal. His superiors had long ceased to listen to his wild claims.”

  “Will they reconsider his ‘wild claims’?” Khallimar suggested.

  “Anarchists,” Bellaseus repeated. “Eventually they will see his presence at that café in the worst light possible. Cynicism always triumphs over insight, and will probably think themselves well rid of him and his unsettling influence.”

  “You bank too much on the stupidity of humanity, Baron.”

  “And you, My Lord, too little.”

  “The deaths were meaningless,” Khallimar said. “The English policeman and Poulpe’s daughter escaped with the information.”

  “Eck will take care of them.”

  “As she took care of the airship they did not board?”

  The Baron paused. “That was most regrettable. It is not often that Eck underestimates an adversary, but I am reassured by her last coded message. The information will be recovered, and they will be killed on the Channel train, before they attain London.”

  “Will she derail the train, or perhaps collapse the entire damn Channel Tunnel?” Lord Khallimar demanded with a sneer.

  “This time she need not be motivated by our desperation,” the Baron explained. “She has by now boarded, and the train makes several stops prior to entering the Tunnel. She has time to plan an assassination most beneficial to MEDUSA…” He leered at the dark man across from him. “…And perhaps one that will even please you; I believe it still holds a special place in your heart.”

  Khallimar raised an eyebrow.

  “Murder-suicide,” Baron Bellaseus murmured.

  The leader looked up and lightly stroked tapering fingers along his fork beard. “Murder,” he breathed. “Suicide.”

  “An English policeman in France for reasons obscure deflowers the honor of an innocent young girl, spiriting her out of the country for immoral reasons,” Bellaseus continued. “During the journey there is an argument of some kind, a realization of her ruination, a threat to toss her aside. She kills the man who has soiled her, then, filled with remorse and self-loathing, she takes her own life.”

  Lord Khallimar considered the scenario with half-lidded eyes, a mannerism that gives his lean dark face an almost reptilian cast.

  “The British government will be embarrassed as public opinion shines the worst possible light upon the situation.”

  Khallimar nodded slightly. “The ability of a directed press to shape malleable minds.”

  “The endless gullibility engendered by human stupidity.”

  “If Eck can avoid mucking things up again.”

  Bellaseus watched Lord Khallimar carefully, though he seemed to gaze at the flames before them.

  “Yes, that will be satisfactory,” Khallimar finally said. “It will create a moral quagmire for the British Empire, but, most of all, she must recover the papers. We must be sure Forgeron worked alone.”

  “Indeed we will,” Bellaseus agreed.

  “When the information is recovered by Eck forward it to me for review,” Khallimar ordered. “I want to know how the traitor dug so deeply into our organization, whether he was aided.”

  “Yes,” Bellaseus acknowledged with a slight nod. “As soon as I analyze the information I will…”

  “No, I want it sent directly to me,” Khallimar snapped. “I wish to assess it myself.”

  “As you command, it will be done.” After a long moment Bellaseus added: “My Lord.”

  Khallimar stared at Bellaseus. He thought it unlikely the man would do as ordered. He should have one of his own agents intercept Eck before she reported back to MEDUSA’s spymaster. Over the past year, Bellaseus had worked unchecked and unfettered, a necessary evil given the clandestine nature of his activities. His reports always satisfied the Conclave, but what was the Conclave but a paper lion? The Conclave had confidence in him, Khallimar did not. Though he had come to distrust his old friend, he had never considered him a direct threat. He saw now he may have made a grave error in letting their ancient ties color his thoughts. It was clear that Bellaseus threatened his master plan, that something would soon have to be done. He was no longer a useful tool.

  “By the way, I understand Poulpe was finally found?”

  “Yes, living in obscurity on Mars.”

  “Oh?”

  “Apparently he is quite mad, having developed an obsession about the ancient races of Mars,” Bellaseus explained.

  “So, he was not pursuing his studies independently?”

  “No, he had involved himself in a smuggling syndicate.”

  “That is curious,” Khallimar murmured, his voice laced with doubt. “He seemed most dedicated to my cause.”

  Bellaseus shrugged. “The vagaries of the mind…”

  “He is being interrogated?”

  “Yes, according to the last scheduled report I received from the agents handling the investigation,” Bellaseus replied. “But I shall check later to see if anything has developed. Zimmer is very good at extracting information from reluctant lips.”

  Khallimar frowned. “Zimmer is impetuous. That is why I asked that Tanaka be assigned to the mission.”

  Bellaseus glanced slyly. “Have you heard from Tanaka?”

  “He would hardly report to me directly, would he?” the dark man replied coolly. “After all, he is an operative of your division. I am sure he knows where his loyalties lie.”

  “Yes,” Bellaseus agreed. “I am sure he does.”

  “Let us move to other matters,” Khallimar said. “Have you read reports about the Hephaestus Project?”

  “The security and intelligence reports,” Bellaseus replied. “As to the more technical side…well, I am a simple man.”

  “You have no interest at all in the equations of probability and power?” Khallimar asked.

  “None at all, My Lord Khallimar,” Bellaseus said with a sharky smile. “Men are ruled by the iron glove, not mathematics.”

  “A most limited view, and disappointing. The equations that motivate the Great Machine to open the portals are real works of art, the highest manifestations of the mind of man. It would improve your mind, and increase your value to MEDUSA, were you to take an interest in such matters, to rise above the war of shadows you wage on our behalf. You should have contact with more than just the Security Officer at the Station.”

  “As I said, My Lord, I am a simple man,” Bellaseus repeated. “I serve MEDUSA to the best of my talents.”

  “Most men do not find satisfaction in servitude,” Khallimar said, carefully watching for even the slightest of signs, the flaring of a nostril, the tic of an eye. “Most men aspire toward power.”

  “Ah, but I have power within MEDUSA,” Bellaseus pointed out. “Mathematics and machines I cannot understand will not give me more than I have.”

  “And you do not desire more than you have?” Khallimar asked. “To extend beyond the limits of our organization, some day?”

  “I believe in the goals of MEDUSA,” Bellaseus replied. “I do what I can to realize those goals.”

  “I see,” Khallimar said.

  Bellaseus frowned. “Are you troubled?”

  “Have there been any further problems with Pandora?”

  “There have never been any security problems at Pandora,” the Baron replied, a little taken back by the sudden change in subject. “The facility is protected by its own devices, the area is monitored by the Bla
ck Sails. No one has any reason to go to Pandora, and those that stray in are taken care of, either by the facility or by a distant glimpse of the Black Sails.”

  Khallimar nodded. They were a dangerous band, the Black Sails, avoided by aetherships and the small craft favored by asteroid miners. But they were outsiders, no more than mercenaries.

  “Do the Black Sails know what they protect?”

  “They do not care, My Lord,” Bellaseus said. “They only care about the acquisition of silver, platinum and gold. However, they have seen the power they guard, what it can do to even the most protected and swift of aetherships, hence they do what they are told, without hesitation or question.”

  Yes, but whose orders do they heed? Khallimar thought. Those of MEDUSA, or yours?

  “It sounds as if that end of the project is well taken care of,” the leader of MEDUSA remarked, smiling.

  “You may be assured of that, Khallimar.” Bellaseus mirrored his superior’s smile. “The region around Pandora is well avoided.”

  “I hope that avoidance does not draw attention.”

  “Not at all,” Bellaseus said. “The men who ply the aether are no less superstitious than their nautical counterparts. They steer clear of regions of space, not knowing exactly why. Here be dragons!” The Baron laughed at his joke, but Lord Khallimar did not. “Well, you need not worry about Pandora”

  Khallimar nodded, but he did not look convinced. “I am still concerned about the matter in Paris, Baron.”

  “You need not worry about Poulpe’s daughter or the English policeman,” Bellaseus said flatly. “They will never reach London. You have my word on that.”

  “Very well,” Khallimar said, standing abruptly.

  Bellaseus discreetly pressed a button under the arm of his chair, and the doors to the study were opened by a human servant. Of the man who had conducted Khallimar from his flier, there was neither sign nor spoor.

  “Walk with me, Baron,” Khallimar said softly.

  “Of course, My Lord,” Bellaseus said, standing languidly, pausing to empty his glass. “As you wish.”

  The servant stood woodenly by the doors, as Lord Khallimar and the Baron passed by. Bellaseus stopped suddenly, staring not at the servant’s face but at a small dark spot barely visible upon his coat. It was blood.

  “Report to the Master of Excruciation.” Bellaseus said. “No less than two hours in the Hauptfolterkammer. Full power.”

  “As you command, Baron,” The man walked away sharply.

  “My apologies, Lord Khallimar,” Bellaseus said as he returned to his master, who had watched the exchange with faint amusement. “Discipline must be maintained.”

  “Of course,” Khallimar agreed. “Any society without discipline is doomed.” He glanced speculatively at the Baron as they walked. “You do realize, however, that at full power your servitor will not last much past an hour in the Hauptfolterkammer?”

  “Yes,” Bellaseus murmured. “Not even that.”

  Balance must be maintained, he thought. My followers must be reassured that all their lives belong to me, not to an interloper.

  * * *

  “Nothing at all from the Princess of Mars?” Folkestone asked. “When was the last communication?”

  The aether-radio technician checked his logbook. “Yesterday at 1723, sir. A routine communications check was scheduled for 2300, but they missed it. I’ve tried to raise them, but to no avail.”

  “Could it be some malfunction on their behalf?”

  “Perhaps, sir,” the technician admitted. “The only thing I know for sure is that their aether-radio is not active.”

  “How do you know that?” Folkestone asked.

  “If a aether-wave device is powered up, it affects the aether in some way, sort of like if you put a farthing under a tablecloth,” the young man explained. “You can’t see it, but you know it’s there if you run your hand over it. I don’t know that I am explaining it…”

  “That’s all right, lad,” Folkestone said. “I will take your word for it. But if I understand you rightly, you would still be able to find them even if they were unable to transmit.”

  “Not find them, in the sense of locating them precisely, as with a beacon, but a rough direction and distance, like you can tell where a rock was dropped into a pool by the speed and distance between the ripples,” the young technician said, obviously not accustomed to dealing with people, and officers, ignorant of the mysteries of the aether. “But with the device totally inactive…” He spread his hands before him helplessly.

  “And the reason for the inactivity?”

  “Well, it could be…”

  “Any word?” Admiral Barrington-Welles demanded, entering.

  “No, sir,” Folkestone replied. He brought the Admiral up to speed on the situation, simplifying the explanations even more than the lad done for him. He looked back to the technician. “Carry on. You were explaining the silence.”

  The technician’s eyes were still as wide as they had gone when the Lord Admiral swept into the room. Talking to a captain of dragoons was one thing, but an admiral was altogether different, and the Lord Admiral himself was another kettle of fish entirely. The technician was in his element surrounded by copper coils and vacuum tubes, the intricacies of aether-circuits, but sitting before the two officers looming over him he felt like a gasping landed lamprey. When he saw the old man raise a querying eyebrow, the lad’s survival instincts rushed to save him.

  “As I was explaining to Captain Folkestone, it could be several things,” the lad breathlessly. “The most common one is that the set is completely powered down for maintenance or some other reason. It could have malfunctioned. It could have been damaged.”

  “Or they might be unable to respond.”

  The technician looked between the two men, confused.

  The Admiral nodded. “No communication at all?”

  “No, sir, none.” Then he rushed on to say: “And, sir, I’ve been at it ever since the communication check was missed. Been an hour, it has. Not a chirp. I haven’t checked with Ceres Station yet…”

  “And you won’t,” Folkestone interjected.

  “But, sir, with the Princess o’ Mars being a civilian ship and all, we have to…”

  “You only have to follow orders, young man,” the Admiral cut in. “And your orders are to raise that ship.” He signaled the tech-sergeant in charge, a black man named M’lumba. “This man is relieved of all duties except reestablishing communications with the aethership Princess of Mars.”

  The non-commissioned officer glanced at the technician. “You heard the Admiral. Carry on.” He looked to the Admiral. “I will see you are kept informed.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant M’lumba,” the Admiral said. “As you know, this is confidential; impress that upon your subordinate.”

  “Of course, Admiral.”

  The Admiral and Folkestone moved away. “I don’t like it, not at all, Folkestone. Despite what our young friend said, I do not think there is anything routine about the silence.”

  “Neither do I, sir,” Folkestone agreed. “Captain Wax runs too tight a ship to allow the aether-radio to go out of commission. With all the back-up systems in those blasted devices, it’s not feasible that there should be a complete failure of all systems.”

  “I concur,” the Admiral said. “However, there is little I can do without tipping our hand. I can hardly send an aether-cruiser in after a civilian ship with no distress signal, definitely not to Pandora, for there is no flight plan that could reasonably lead us there. We have to be careful with Section 6 involved. The Admiralty can always make a pretext for regular communications checks with any craft, civilian or not, but I may have gone too far involving myself with it, and certainly by actually issuing those orders.”

  “I’m sure it will all be kept confidential,” Folkestone said.

  “I hope so, but the tides seem to be changing.” The Admiral sighed. “Perhaps you should not have informed me.”

/>   Folkestone tilted his head and stared quizzically.

  “No, you’re correct of course,” the Admiral admitted. “If you had not sent for me, I would have been more than cross.” He looked back at the communications room. “Well, what’s done is done.”

  “We need to send a craft to investigate,” Folkestone asserted.

  “I wish it were possible, Folkestone,” the Admiral countered.

  “A routine patrol,” Folkestone suggested.

  “There would be nothing routine about it, and every crew member would know it,” the Admiral said. “A civilian craft can be guided by the whims of an eccentric—Section 6’s rationale behind the decision to send Cynthia—but military ships must be motivated by orders and procedures.”

  “I’m seen as being rather eccentric, rather unpredictable.”

  “What?”

  “And Sergeant Hand is a wild man, a loose cannon if there ever was one” Folkestone added. “Everybody knows, put us together, give us some free time, anything might happen.”

  “And if you had an aethercraft…”

  “Like a recently confiscated smuggler’s ship.”

  “…you might end up anywhere.”

  “Exactly, Admiral,” Folkestone said. “What you don’t know, you can’t control, condone or condemn.”

  “I don’t like sending you off into the unknown like that.”

  “You’re not sending, Admiral, just looking the other way.”

  “You and Hand have had a rough time of things lately.”

  “Indeed, Admiral,” Folkestone agreed. “Murders, explosions, and assassins hiding in shadows.” He grabbed a leave request from a nearby desk. “We’ve had a very rough time. I’d like to request a week’s leave for Hand and myself, if we can be spared.”

  “I think so,” the Admiral said, scrawling his signature on the blank form. “Might be a good idea to get you off Mars at that, put you out of range of Tanaka and Zimmer, not that this may be any less dangerous.” He looked around. “By the by, where is Hand?”

  “At the barracks, I suppose,” Folkestone replied. “I did not see any reason to bring him in. It would cause him unnecessary worry. When it comes to Lady Cynthia, he…well…he fails to see…”