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

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  The lean, dark man sighed and reclined back in his chair. After a moment, he took the glass of wine and downed it.

  “It is time to move my plans forward, to advance the schedule for implementing Hephaestus,” Khallimar said. “Issue secret orders with my authorization, all regional satrapies must prepare to take over when the governments fall. All operatives and infiltrators must ready themselves to act upon my orders, and mine alone. Ensure them all, the banner of MEDUSA is ready to rise.”

  “Yes, My Lord, it shall be done.” But Ahriman frowned.

  “What is it, Ahriman?”

  The Mesopotamian hesitated.

  “Speak freely,” Lord Khallimar insisted.

  “The facility upon Pandora…”

  “Ah, yes, that is a concern, but not a huge one,” Khallimar said. “Its eventual destruction was fated, but not until all equations for manipulating the energy forms had been tested. We were so near that achievement, I do not feel the loss of the station is crippling to my plans, despite what the Baron may believe.”

  Ahriman nodded.

  “If anything, its destruction forces my hand, as do other recent events, but that may be for the best in the long run,” he continued. “If the Baron thinks his machinations will work against me, will somehow allow him to control MEDUSA, he is a fool indeed.”

  “Shall I take action against the Baron?” Ahriman asked.

  “No, not at this time; let him think he is succeeding,” Khallimar replied. “But let me amend your orders. Issue the warning only to those operatives completely in our trust, those over whom Bellaseus has no control or hold. Shift personnel about as necessary, but do so subtly, quickly, and ensure the Baron hears not a word about this.”

  “As you command, My Lord.” The Mesopotamian bowed.

  “With the loss of Pandora, I must make sure the calculations are flawless,” Lord Khallimar said. “Remind me of the name of the mathematician I engaged confidentially.”

  “Martin, My Lord.”

  “Yes…Martin. It will be necessary to have him run through the entire sequence of equations.” Khallimar studied his servant’s face. “What is it, Ahriman? What is it about Martin that raises such obvious ire and disgust in you?”

  “I do not trust him,” Ahriman explained. “He is arrogant and possesses an inflated idea of his value to MEDUSA.”

  “He is brilliant and underused,” Khallimar said. “He knows it. A man with such unrecognized talent is entitled to some measure of conceit. Besides, it is that conceit which allows me to so thoroughly use him as a tool.”

  “Perhaps, My Lord,” Ahriman grumbled. “But he assumes a greatness he does not possess, a destiny which is not in his stars. It is my experience that when a small man gets a whiff of greatness, he will aspire to a destiny for which he is not fated.”

  “Why should I care about the petty dreams of a petty man if they do not interfere with the manifestation of my own dreams?” the Lord demanded. “He serves his purpose. That is all I care about.”

  “But if he is not loyal?” Ahriman suggested.

  Lord Khallimar whipped his head sharply toward his servitor, a savage expression suddenly disfiguring his handsome face. His lips pulled back in a feral snarl. His eyes flared like those of a stalking tiger suddenly given the scent of prey.

  “The Baron,” Khallimar snapped. “You suspect his hand?”

  “I have no proof of such an alliance,” Ahriman admitted. “But if a man can be drawn to one master because of his moral weakness, might not that same weakness make him susceptible to the advances of another master?”

  The murderous expression on Khallimar’s face reformed into a doubting scowl. He nodded slightly for Ahriman to continue.

  “Immediately after this Martin was contacted by one of our recruiters, he was sent to the primary station to analyze functions of the energy Mills, a sensitive post, and that was before we discovered the extent of his mathematical skills,” Ahriman said. “According to reports filed by Supervisory Analyst Laplace. Mr Martin is a cause for concern, secretive and furtive, the source of anxiety for many of his coworkers, who consider him unstable.”

  “He is eccentric perhaps,” Khallimar said. “We do not recruit people to MEDUSA for their social skills.”

  Ahriman paused, searching his master’s feature for signs of annoyance. Although the Mesopotamian had been in the service of Lord Khallimar a long time, he knew that was no defense should the man suddenly decide to unleash the brutality and cruelty he usually kept in check. Seeing nothing but interest, he continued.

  “Mr Laplace has often found Martin on the observation deck at odd hours, alone, staring sunward over the plains at the energy Mills and sometimes speaking,” Ahriman said.

  “Speaking?”

  “Those are the reports, My Lord.”

  “Speaking to whom?” the dark man asked. “I thought you said he was alone on the observation deck.”

  “He takes pains to be alone, but he speaks as if he were in deep conversation with another being,” Ahriman answered. “Laplace has observed Martin do this many times. It is all in the reports he has sent to me over the past several weeks.”

  “Sent to you?”

  “I asked him to watch Martin,” Ahriman said, choosing his words carefully. “Considering the trust you have placed in this man to complete such confidential work, I thought it a prudent action.”

  After a long moment, Lord Khallimar nodded. “A wise move.”

  Ahriman sighed, but inwardly.

  “Eccentric, but no proof of treachery?”

  “No, My Lord.”

  “You may not like or trust Mr Martin, but he is useful to me, especially at this stage in the operation.”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “Send a coded aether transmission to Martin, have him begin his review of the power equations,” Khallimar said. “He is to have it completed by the time we arrive at the station.”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “After he has completed that task, his usefulness will end.”

  Ahriman grinned widely.

  “After the change, the usefulness of many people will come to an end, and others who have lain dormant will become as a new tool put to a new task,” Lord Khallimar mused. “We stand upon the eve of a new age, the dawn of an era unlike any before in the history of many worlds. It will lift all the races out of chaos and bring them an order they have never before known, a time without war or want, a new direction to their petty, aimless lives. All the races of the Solar System with hear the clear voice of one unchallenged master, will, if necessary, feel the touch of one sure whip-hand—mine.”

  “Nothing must stand in the way,” Ahriman breathed.

  “Perhaps it would be best to take care of the Baron after all,” Lord Khallimar said after a moment. “He has already caused me much trouble, and I don’t trust him to remain ignorant. He has too many ears in too many rooms.”

  Ahriman raised his eyebrows, querying.

  “The Nip,” Lord Khallimar said.

  “Tanaka?”

  “Most trustworthy,” Khallimar said. “He is an unemotional man, but I believe he will enjoy the task nevertheless.”

  “Zimmer is still with him,” Ahriman reminded.

  “Yes, he is,” Lord Khallimar said with a small smile. “I think he will also enjoy killing Zimmer, but do not order him to do so. It will be very instructive to see what happens if we let him take the initiative in this matter.”

  “As you command, My Lord.”

  “After you have contacted Tanaka and Martin, carry out my operations orders as quickly as you can,” Khallimar said.

  “If reassignments are to be made, it may take some time,” the servant said. “Especially as they must be kept hidden.”

  “Yes, do not act rashly—softly softly catchee monkey,” Lord Khallimar said. “But remember I am not a patient man. Have the aethership ready for departure in three hours.”

  “As you command, My Lord.”

&
nbsp; * * *

  Eck tightly tied the cord above her left elbow. Immediately, the fountain of blood shooting from where her forearm had once been stopped. Somewhere on the floor of the train, she thought bitterly and fighting through a mix of pain and encroaching darkness, her hand still clutched the grip of her weapon.

  Once she staunched the cascade, the oblivion threatening to engulf her began to recede. She shivered without any real feeling of cold. She fought the onslaught of shock just as she battled the pain, by sheer will alone. Keeping under cover, she looked back at the smoking mass of the train. The only sounds that came across the glade to her were the small screams and wails of emerging survivors and the hissing shriek of the engine’s shattered boiler, its howl diminishing like that of a dying beast.

  The train’s derailment was not intended to kill anyone but to hide murder. Even though the papers were safely with Section 6, her orders were still to kill Slaughter and the Poulpe girl. She had had time to plan the deed, to suss out the lay of the land. The security surrounding the Village denied access, so she had to strike while the girl was being shunted back to London. An attack along that long lonely stretch of road was preferred, but Slaughter knew the danger, no matter the guarding force. It had to be the train, and once she learned their plans, Eck began preparations.

  Murder within an accident was Eck’s specialty, used numerous times when direct violence was ill advised. Whether the target was a crowned head, a minister, a rabble rouser, or simply an ordinary person whose death would create extraordinary circumstances, it was important the hand of MEDUSA remain unsuspected. The Baron’s previous orders had puzzled and distressed her and had, she felt, contributed to her failure.

  She was happy for another chance to complete her mission, and happier still for the opportunity to work in her own fashion. It was a matter of pride that she always succeeded, but she wondered now if her desire to make up for her previous failures had not in some way contributed to the cock-up in which she was now entangled.

  The time of departure for London gave her the when and where for the derailment and her plan of escape. Once all those variables were set, her actions were dictated, to board at a certain station in disguise, to walk at a steady rate and arrive at her target just before the charges separated the track couplings. She allowed thirty-seven seconds to break their necks, then make her way to the jumping off point. All had gone according to plan until the start of the crucial thirty-seven seconds.

  She almost laughed when she saw them sharing a picnic lunch out of a wicker hamper. They looked up with amusement to see an elderly traveler bumble in. They smiled in the patronizing way of the young as the doddering old lady mumbled apologies.

  The more dangerous of the pair, Slaughter, was her first target. There was no reason he should suspect an old dear proffering an apology for the intrusion. But a hardening of his eyes, a leveling of his gaze, and she knew he had penetrated her ruse. As she reached for him he planted a foot in her chest and pushed hard.

  Thirty-three seconds.

  Marie Poulpe screamed.

  Slaughter was still off balance from his defense.

  Thirty-one seconds.

  It was too late, she realized, to snap both their necks. She could kill the Poulpe girl in such a way as to hide her murder, but there was no time left to overpower Slaughter. The chief inspector would have to die by more direct means.

  Twenty-nine seconds.

  From within the folds of the dress, Eck pulled a sleek gun, the bullets of which exploded moments after contact. It was a cruel weapon, but the total destruction of the projectile ensure absolute lethality and created a wound so massive that investigators might ascribe it to the result of the wreck. Once the man was out of the way, it would be an easy matter to snap the neck of the other, with plenty of time remaining to jump from the train.

  Twenty-seven seconds.

  Even as Eck raised her own weapon, Slaughter pulled from the wicker hamper a grotesque and ugly gun, a sort of pocket version of an elephant rifle. Its roar was deafening. Eck pulled the trigger, but it was a reflex action, the final muscular jerk of the limb on the floor of the carriage. The bullet impacted against a panel.

  Twenty-three seconds.

  Eck stared first at the errant limb, then at the geysering stump.

  Nineteen seconds.

  Eck looked up to see the twin muzzles of that monstrous gun trained at her head.

  Fifteen seconds.

  Cradling her arm, pressing against the main artery, she turned and fled, expecting at any moment to hear a second roar, to feel the shot to slam into her back.

  Eleven seconds.

  She sneered at the man’s weakness. As she wrenched open the door, the train began to brake. The Scotland Yard man had pulled the emergency cord, but too late.

  Eck heard the explosions, felt the concussion and the sudden tilt of the train. She leaped as far as she could, rolled, then ran.

  The destruction of the train was not as total as she had planned. The engine had taken the brunt of the force. The slowing of the train prevented most of it from hitting the break in the track. Her last hope vanished when she saw Slaughter and Poulpe escorted from the train to a waiting steamer by a tall one-eyed woman.

  Fighting the urge to topple into unconsciousness, Eck made her way to a hidden vehicle, then to the door of a surgeon in Stepney. She had no idea what she to tell the Baron. Or what he would do.

  Chapter 11

  “Welcome to Mercury,” said the tall man with a dark bristling moustache and a pointed beard. He was dressed entirely in black. “I am Professor Lewis Swift, attached to Twilight Observatory.”

  “I’m Captain Folkestone, and this is Sergeant Hand.”

  “So pleased to meet the both of you,” Swift said. He shook Folkestone’s proffered hand, then grabbed the Sergeant’s and pumped enthusiastically. “Especially you, young fellow. We don’t get many Martians visiting Mercury.”

  “I don’t wonder!” Sergeant Hand gasped.

  “Yes, I suppose it is rather rich in oxygen,” Swift allowed. “I find it rather invigorating, much like the lesser gravity.”

  Hand might have shot some snarky retort but he was doing well enough just to breathe Mercury’s soupy, oxygenated atmosphere.

  “At least it’s not hot, like Venus,” Swift said. “Just muggy.”

  For the sake of interplanetary relations, it was just as well Hand could not give voice to the thoughts going through his mind.

  “Well, you’ll get used to it, young fellow,” Swift said. “Please come with me and I’ll show you where you’re supposed to report. Then I can squire you around, show you something of the city and Research Station, then ferry you down to the observatory.”

  “Thank you, Professor,” Folkestone said, falling into step with the scientist, leaving Hand to bring up the rear. “I understand you are an American?”

  “Indeed I am, Captain,” Swift confessed. “Until a few years ago I was the director of the Warner Observatory in Rochester, New York. Then the opportunity arose to work at various observatories in the Empire. However, Earth-based astronomy, not being what it used to be, I jumped at the chance to spend two years on Mercury.”

  “Not interested in deep space observation?” Folkestone asked.

  Swift shook his head. “There are wonders enough yet to be found in our own Solar System, and I’d like to be known for some of those discoveries. Did you know, Captain, I’ve named more comets than any other living astronomer?”

  “Fascinating,” Folkestone lied.

  “Yes, bloody fascinating,” Hand added. “Begging your pardon, Professor, but where in the blazes are we going?”

  “To the Consul, from what I…” Folkestone started to say.

  “Ah, we’re there now,” the astronomer announced.

  Their destination was a rectangular building identical to several others in a row, all constructed from the iridescent grayish pink rock that was the most common construction material in the
Twilight Belt. The only thing that distinguished one structure from another was the small national flag mounted above each doorway. They headed for the one surmounted by the banner of the British Empire.

  “The political situation here is rather tricky,” Swift said. “The core of Twilight City is Twilight Research Station, established by the British government, but as other Powers lay claim to mineral and gas sites on Brightside and Nightside it became necessary to allow them some presence, and a small voice, in the administration of the city itself. Fortunately, the observatory is attached to the Research Station and, thus, above petty political squabbling…well, most of it. The man you’re going to see is Sir Hubert Lefling, Special Attaché of Her Majesty’s Government.”

  “So, why do we need to see chummy?” Hand demanded as he caught up with the other two. “I mean, if this isn’t a secret mission, it’s at least supposed to be bloody confidential, ain’t it?”

  “I’m told it’s just a formality to…”

  “Pay no attention to Sergeant Hand,” Folkestone interposed, his lips curved in a wide grin. “Too much oxygen makes him cranky.”

  Hand growled, his face flushing a shade of orange.

  “I see you like Nicodemus Legend, Sergeant,” Professor Swift said, pointing to the corner of a publication edging out of the man’s duffle. “Quite a writer and quite a character, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, you read him too?” Hand asked, his face brightening as he almost forgot how miserable he was..

  “Indeed!” the astronomer agreed. “I read all the titles I can get my hands on, which is not as easy on Mercury as it probably is on Mars or Venus. I like Nick Carter very much, as well as Hop Sing, Chinese Detective and Vigilantes of Science.”

  “What about Wild West Sleuths and Steam Knights?”

  “Very much so! In fact I have…”

  “Gentlemen,” Folkestone interrupted, smiling indulgently. “Perhaps you could adjourn your meeting of the Mercurian Literary Society to another time. The sooner we check in with Sir Hubert, and check out, the better.”