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

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “Get to the controls,” the leader told Folkestone. “You two get on the floor with your backs against the bulkhead.” He said to the others: “Shoot them if this one tries anything.”

  “Just tell me what you want me to do,” Folkestone said. “There is no reason for anyone to get hurt or you to act uncivilized.”

  The leader slammed his weapon’s butt against Folkestone’s head. Hand tried to leap to his friend’s assistance, but a metal-encased foot roughly shoved him back.

  “You’re going to regret doing that, mate!” the Martian growled.

  “An officer and a gentleman, are you?” the leader sneered at Folkestone. “I had my fill of your kind when I took the Queen’s shilling, so don’t push me none. I’m supposed to bring you three back to base for questioning, but give me any trouble, you and your mates are brown bread. Get it?”

  “I get it,” Folkestone replied, not bothering to keep contempt from his tone. He steeled himself for retaliation that did not come.

  “Engage your repulsors, come to zero-one-seven, all slow.”

  Folkestone lifted the craft into the heated air, turned to the heading indicated and made slowly for the base in the foothills.

  “Veer slightly left to avoid interference from the Mills.”

  “The Mills are the monoliths on the plain?”

  The leader of the outlaws smacked the back of Folkestone’s head with his metal-gloved hand.

  Stunned by the blow, Folkestone fought to stay conscious. He felt a trickle of blood hotly running down his neck from a gash in his scalp. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on piloting the craft toward the MEDUSA base. Every fiber of his being wanted to lash out as their captor, but he knew there was no bluff whatsoever in their threat to kill Hand and Swift.

  “See the landing deck extending?” the leader said pointing the way ahead. “Come down on the limit marks, then kill your engines and put your hands behind your head. Any deviation will result in the deaths of your mates.”

  As Folkestone brought the aethership nearer the landing deck, he considered engaging the aether-engines at full and ramming the base, but he immediately dismissed the plan. They might survive the concussion and overpower their unbalanced captors, but the chance of success was less than slim. While they might cause some serious damage to the facility, even allowing some of the contained atmosphere to vent and opening portions to the full fury of the Sun, there was no guarantee they could destroy enough of the base to render it impotent. Their only real hope was to remain alive until an a opportunity to act presented itself.

  “Now you’re being smart, even for an officer and a gentleman,” the leader of the thugs said as Folkestone brought the ship exactly on mark, killed the propulsive engines and shut down the boiler. “Now, hands behind the head…yeah, that’s a good boy.”

  Roughly prodded, Folkestone stood and turned. He felt sticky blood seeping through his laced fingers. Hand and Swift got to their feet and similarly laced their fingers behind their heads.

  “Keep your eyes on those two, lads,” the leader instructed. “Especially the little fellow. You know how those damned Martians are, particularly the Highlanders. Just animals they are.”

  Hand’s face flushed orange as his anger flared. Two of the men guarding him stepped back even though he remained motionless.

  “Try anything an’ I’ll blow your blasted head clean off your shoulders,” one of them warned, speaking for the first time. He had an American accent.

  “Steady, Sergeant,” Folkestone advised. “No need to hurt these yobs. There’s always a better time and place.”

  “Shut your mouth, less you want it knocked off again.”

  “Move out!” snarled another guard, this one with a thick alliaceous accent.

  Folkestone followed Hand and Swift out the craft. The landing platform had been retracted into the structure. Mist swirled across its surface as liquefied gases swirled through tubes within. Other aetherships occupied the docking bay including, Folkestone noted, the craft that had overflown them while still on the night side.

  The guards marched their captives across the yawning chamber into one of several passageways. The ceilings and upper portions of the walls were lined with various tubes and ducts, some gleaming brass or steel, others insulated with either thick layers of woven material or some kind of rubberized substance. Folkestone gestured at them with a flick of his eyes. Hand acknowledged with an imperceptible dip of his head. They were conducted to a small featureless room, then shoved rudely inside. The door hissed closed behind them. They heard loud ratcheting sounds of complex mechanisms locking into place.

  “Let me take a look at that wound, sir,” Hand offered as the Captain wiped his bloody hands on his trousers.

  “Probably looks worse than it actually is.”

  “Not too bad, sir,” Hand said, peering at the gash. “Your skull may not be as thick as the average officer’s, but it’s thick enough.”

  “Well, here we are again, another hopeless situation, Hand.”

  “Been worse off, haven’t we, sir?”

  “Not by much.”

  “I guess we’re doomed then,” Swift sighed. “At the mercy of these savages.”

  “Now, whoever said that, Professor?” Hand smirked.

  “But I thought you…” Swift stammered. “And it looks…”

  “Locked in a room with no hope of escape,” Folkestone said. “Surrounded by an unknown number of heavily armed foes, with no weapons of our own, on an isolated and deadly planet.”

  “And no one looking for us anytime soon,” Hand added.

  “Well, then it is hopeless,” Swift moaned.

  “O ye of little faith, Professor,” Hand chuckled.

  “We’re doomed only if we stay here,” Folkestone said. “But we have no plans to remain their guests much longer.”

  Both Folkestone and Hand pulled thin, wickedly sharp knives from slits on the insides of their boots. The flat handles were covered with the same leather of which the boots were made. Hand split the leather of his harness and withdrew two long flat strips of a dull gray metal, thicker at one end. Folkestone twisted off the heels of his boots, both of which were hollow. From one he pulled a small, spring-driven needle gun; the other provided an ivory-colored lump of clay-like material, which he tossed to Hand.

  “Move over to that corner, Professor,” Folkestone instructed.

  Hand rolled out the clay, inserted the strips of metal, and attached them to opposite sides of the door.

  “The concussive force will be outward, but it’s very powerful.”

  When Hand was finished he looked to Folkestone, received a nod, and crushed the thickened ends of both strips which he had set at the top. Folkestone rushed to join Swift, putting his own body between the astronomer and the doorway, and Hand flew to the opposite corner.

  When nothing happened immediately, Swift chanced a look and saw twin tendrils of smoke rising. He recognized the smell of acid. Then it felt as if a giant fist had slammed into them. The door vanished in a whispery, almost noiseless explosion, followed by a solid thump. Swift wondered why the door had not made a clanging sound. Then he heard wretched moans.

  Folkestone led the way, Hand close behind. Swift cautiously followed. Three bodies were under the door, one still alive.

  Folkestone pocketed his needle gun and gathered the guards’ weapons. He passed them out.

  “Think you can handle this rifle, Professor? It’s an odd design.”

  “Rifle’s a rifle,” he said. “Was a keen shot as a lad. Still am.”

  “Good man.”

  “What’s the plan, sir?” Hand asked. “Won’t be long before they set off a klaxon over us.”

  “Think you can make it back to the ship?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take the Professor with you,” Folkestone ordered. “Use our aether-radio to call in reinforcements. If you can, get away from this place, but make sure you call down hellfire, no matter what.”
<
br />   “What about you, sir?”

  “I’m going to try to keep our friends occupied, keep them away from that landing bay,” Folkestone replied.

  “But that’s suicide,” Swift protested.

  “I’m not the suicide type, Professor.”

  “But the Prof is…”

  “Off with you, Sergeant,” Folkestone snapped. “Don’t waste time arguing. And keep Professor Swift safe.”

  Reluctantly, Hand nodded, grabbed Swift’s arm and ran off in the direction they had come. Folkestone watched long enough to see they were on their way, then set off in the opposite direction.

  * * *

  Eck awoke in her cabin when the aethership began to decelerate and sat up straight in her bunk. Most people would not have noticed the change, so efficient were the gravity plates used to counteract the inertial forces of the Newtonian universe, but Eck was not most people. Since birth she had been raised to be her father’s weapon. She had never known her mother, who had never been more than a vessel for her father’s seed, carefully chosen from the stock of the valley according to stringent Mendelian and Darwinian strictures, then just as efficiently cast aside.

  What Eck did not consciously recall were the others like her, sisters of other mothers. Sometimes, in disturbing dreams, she saw children with her eyes. Perhaps they were mere shadows in the castle that had always been her home. Unlike her unknown sisters, Eck survived; more accurately, she had not been weeded out.

  She touched the bulkhead, then saw the mechanical marvel now attached to her arm. It would be, she reflected without a trace of emotion, a much better weapon than the limb with which nature had equipped her. It could not feel, but that was not a disadvantage.

  She pressed her human hand against the metal of the ship and confirmed what she already knew, that the Baron’s aethership was indeed slowing in its approach to their destination, the planet code-named Hephaestus. It was a place about which she was supposed to be ignorant, but she knew many things she was not supposed to know, for it had been engineered into her nature to ferret out secrets and to learn all hidden things. She was supposed to use those skills against her father’s foes and those who stood in the way of the inevitable suzerainty of MEDUSA, but every sword cut two ways, and a lifetime of honing had given her the keenest of edges.

  Eck changed into a traveling suit of black leather and placed a flat cap on her head. Usually she took care to blend into the culture in which she found herself, but out here in the aether, en route to Hell, there was no need for pretense. She pulled on a pair of long black gloves, doing so, she told herself, because she had been raised to eschew human contact, but knowing also they concealed her clockwork arm.

  She strapped on a gun belt and fastened a sash of throwing knives across one shoulder. She possessed other, more deadly weapons, but they were best hidden for the time being.

  The Naga guards did not look at her as she traversed the corridors, nor did the humans when she stepped on the bridge. They feared her, she knew, perhaps more than they did Baron Wilhelm Bellaseus. And that, she reflected, was as it should be.

  “We are on final approach to one of our facilities,” the Baron murmured as Eck came to his side.

  “Yes,” she said, peering through the heavily tinted crystal at the bloated disc of the Sun. “Hephaestus.”

  He glanced at her sharply, moving just his eyes. Nothing else betrayed his surprise, not even a quickening of his pulse, for he knew how perceptive she was. She was perfect.

  He ordered the pilot to put Hephaestus Station before them. The Sun swung aft, the Mills hove into view. He frowned at the scintillating clouds about them. Their activation meant Khallimar was making his final move. He noted with mild interest the strange tendrils of energy at the bases of the Mills. He had always thought them strangely animate, but the MEDUSA scientists who had studied them, at a distance, when siting the station had declared them a natural phenomena, no danger to the base or the Mills.

  “Baron, I am picking up…” The navigator’s voice trailed away. He leaned forward, staring at his instruments.

  “Yes?” the Baron snapped impatiently. “What?”

  “I beg pardon, Baron,” the man said. “It was…I thought…”

  “What is it?” Baron Bellaseus demanded. He half rose from his command chair, causing the face of the navigator to chalken.

  “I thought I detected a ship on a parallel course,” the man said, his throat tight. “It vanished…nothing but a tenuous signal…”

  “It was an aether ghost,” the Baron said dismissively, easing back in his chair. “They are not uncommon this near the Sun.”

  “I just thought…”

  The Baron sighed.

  The navigator stiffened, then fell to the deck, a throwing knife in his back. Eck stepped forward, pulled the blade from where it had neatly severed his spine, wiped it on his tunic, and moved to the Baron’s side. The Nagas enthusiastically removed the body and a black man hesitantly seated himself at the navigation console.

  Hephaestus Station was directly before them, but no landing deck was extended. It was likely the station personnel had not yet noticed the approach of the Baron’s aethership, but there were other possibilities. The Baron pressed a button, causing a bell to sound three times, the signal for all hands to assume action stations, armed and ready with survival and breathing kit.

  Normally, the Baron would now contact the station’s control center to establish his identity and request access, but these were not normal times. He flipped open a panel in the arm of his command chair, revealing a three-by-three array of keys like those found on typewriting machines. He covered the keys partially with his palm and punched a number he thought known only to himself.

  He smiled as he saw the bay open and a landing pad extend. If they had not previously known he was arriving, they certainly knew now. He was landing and there was nothing they could do about it, no way to override his signal.

  Leaving final approach to the pilot and the new navigator, the Baron leaped from his command chair and strode toward the exit hatch. He was joined by a phalanx of guards, two humans but the others Naga. Eck stayed by his side.

  The hatchway slid open. Nagas swarmed and slithered down the ramp. The two humans, both hulking men, splendid examples of the Baron’s controlled breeding, stayed slightly behind the Baron and Eck, weapons at the ready, surveying the cavernous landing bay with shark-like eyes.

  As the Baron started down the secured ramp, a staccato volley of gunfire broke out about a hundred yards away. Most of the Nagas headed for the source of the conflict while a few stayed to protect their master. The human guards stepped in front of the Baron. Eck rushed to the base of the ramp, weapons drawn.

  The Baron pushed the guards aside. They followed as the man strode toward the noise. Eck preceded them.

  Baron Bellaseus was surprised when he realized he was not the target of the attack. The security guards were in a heated battle with a Martian and a tall human. Only two people, and yet the guards were getting the worse of it, picked off one by one with expert fire. The Martian and the human were attempting to board one of the aetherships in the bay, not one the Baron recognized.

  Suddenly frenzied klaxons sounded throughout the station. The Baron’s eyes widened in alarm. The sound warned of a breach in the atmospheric or refrigeration systems. He strapped on a breather and goggles. The other humans followed suit. The Naga soldiers ignored the alarm—the air would have to become a fiery soup before it ever affected them, but, also, a berserker battle-lust was upon them and little else mattered.

  The Nagas attacked.

  The human turned and immediately dropped two of the Lizard Men with deadly accuracy. He had drawn a bead on another when a thrown spear went through his left shoulder. The Martian turned when his companion fell, but the Nagas were already upon him. He swung his fists and kicked his feet, butted heads and chomped into tough scaly skin.

  “Stop!” the Baron shouted through the amplifying
disc of his breather, his towering form moving forward. “Stop now!”

  The Nagas were gripped by the blood lust of battle rage, but such was their conditioned loyalty to Baron Bellaseus that they all stopped immediately. They restrained the Martian, but made no further effort to harm or devour him. One of the station security guards raised his sidearm and aimed, but before he could pull the trigger he fell to the deck, a bullet hole in his forehead.

  “What is going on here?” Baron Bellaseus demanded, striding past Eck. “Who are these men?”

  “That is exactly what I want to know!”

  The security guards hastily moved aside for Lord Khallimar. The Nagas and the Baron’s personal guards remained back as he met the slender dark man. Eck moved off slightly.

  “Baron, I did not anticipate your visit,” Khallimar said.

  “No, I dare say you did not.” The Baron looked around, removing his breather. “What is going on?”

  “A security violation, one which is under control.”

  “Yes, they are under control—mine.” The Baron gestured toward the captives, both now bound and held by clawed hands. “Order your men to stand down and move off.”

  When Khallimar did not obey immediately, Bellaseus’ guards raised their rifles and aimed at the dark man. Eck lowered her weapons, but did not holster them. Khallimar smiled sardonically. With a vague gesture he dismissed his forces.

  “Why not?” he asked. “We are still allies.”

  “Are we, Ajite?” the Baron asked.

  “Of course, Wilhelm,” Khallimar said. “Just as when we were boon companions at university. We said we would bring order to the world, and we are on the verge of accomplishing just that.”

  “The Mills seem active,” the Baron observed.

  “Tests,” Khallimar explained. “Just tests.”

  Bellaseus nodded vaguely. “I almost failed to recognize you without your Mesopotamian monkey.”