“Cor blimey!” Hand breathed as they paused in the shadow of an archway. “Well, that goes and puts the cap on it.”
Folkestone and Lady Cynthia peeped around the corner, both above the head of the shorter Martian Highlander. They saw a vast open area, a hanger with ancient stone walls that had in times past obviously been a banqueting hall. Above was a vaulted stone roof, but the gears and armatures of the mechanism that could move aside the rocky covering were plain to see. In the open chamber were two aetherships, one which was familiar to Folkestone and Hand, the other to Lady Cynthia. Both Lord Khallimar and Baron Bellaseus had, after their defeat on Hephaestus, fled to the same rat hole.
Only a few workers were visible, all on the far side of the converted hanger. The intruders were glad none of the Baron’s Nagas were in sight, only these weary humans who looked haggard and thoroughly trounced. They were concerned more with dice and drink than they were with security.
“We don’t yet know where Khallimar and Bellaseus are, but we now know they are both surely here,” Folkestone whispered to his comrades. “We also know we don’t want either of them to leg it out of here if they get the chance.”
“We can’t destroy the ships,” Lady Cynthia pointed out. “That would alert them to our presence.”
“And destroy the element of surprise,” Folkestone added. “Do you think you could put the kibosh on those ships, Hand? Quietly?”
The Martian nodded, shrugged off his backpack, and passed it to Folkestone. A quick look to make sure none of the punters on the far side of the hanger had eyes for anything but the rolling of the bones, then Hand was off and running, moving fast and quiet, keeping to shadows.
Neither aethership was secured. Hand boarded each, first one, then the other, spending about five minutes per craft. Though his absence was brief, it seemed an eternity before he rejoined Lady Cynthia and Folkestone.
“Any difficulties?” Folkestone asked.
“None getting aboard, sir,” the Martian replied. “All one big unhappy family here, so the hatches were wide open and no one on watch.” He frowned. “No one in the land of the living.”
“What do you mean, Sergeant?” Lady Cynthia asked.
“On the second ship, the toff’s,” Hand replied. “I slow-bled the boilers down to nothing and siphoned the motivating liquid, then put the repulsors out of commission.” He paused, and when he again spoke it was in a lower tone, as if afraid of being overheard by unseen ears. “When I went to work on the aether engines, I found a dead bloke. Stuffed between the accumulation chambers, he was. His neck had been snapped.”
“Who was he?” Folkestone asked.
Hand shrugged. “Some bloke. Had on a uniform like those at the MEDUSA base, so I figure he was one of them. He’d been dead awhile, maybe since before they fled.”
“No chance of an accident then?” Folkestone said.
Hand almost rolled his eyes. “Not ‘less he broke his own neck by mistake, then stuffed himself between the accumulators to avoid teasing from his mates.”
Folkestone narrowed his gaze, but Hand refused to give an inch. “The aetherships?”
“Well and good kyboshed, sir,” Hand assured them with a grin. “Even with repulsors repaired and boilers recharged, the moment they try to engage the aether engines, there’s going to be a lovely little fireworks display.”
“Well done, Sergeant!” Lady Cynthia enthused.
Hand’s grin widened.
“Yes, good job, Hand, but I’m still concerned about the body.”
“Well, he’s brown bread, and they don’t seem to know or care.”
“What did you do with him?” Folkestone asked.
“Do with him?” Hand replied. “What was I going to do him but leave him where I found him? Let sleeping knaves lie, I say.”
“Well put, Sergeant,” Lady Cynthia said.
“Please don’t encourage him, M’Lady,” Folkestone advised. “He might start to think he’s funny.”
They skirted the outer edge of the bay, always keeping an eye on the workers. Fortunately, they had no concerns beyond a desire to find some solace in their gambling and sour banter.
“They sound like men very disenchanted with their lot,” Lady Cynthia commented when they were past.
“Whatever was promised when they threw in with MEDUSA, they know there’s no delivery now,” Hand said.
“Mercenaries want their pay,” Folkestone agreed. “But even if they joined heart and soul, it has to be a grim realization, reduced to a mob on the run, holed up in a rookery of a castle.”
Though the group in the landing bay was obviously a desultory bunch, the three invaders learned very quickly that was not the case in the rest of the castle. They dodged guards making their rounds, most of whom were Nagas.
“The ways into the lower levels are more closely guarded,” Folkestone observed.
“Munitions,” Hand suggested. “Power centers.”
“Or maybe a facility such as on Hephaestus,” Lady Cynthia said. “They fled here, but perhaps not solely to evade capture.”
“A second offensive,” Folkestone said. “Or revenge.”
They found a dim passage leading downward, guarded by a lone sentry, a Naga carrying the traditional poison-tipped spear of the Venusian swamplands. The long-necked saurian never had a chance to fight in service to his Lord. Hand distracted the creature while Folkestone dispatched it quickly and painlessly.
The spiraling passage was evidently of great age, for the walls were thick with encrustations, but the ceiling was lined with copper tubes and insulated wires. Down into the gloom they descended, following the trails of modern technology snaking above them.
Eventually they came to a short corridor that opened into a wide gallery. Men in laboratory coats and leather aprons went about on unknown errands, often carrying machinery or pushing them on carts, all under the watchful gazes of Naga guards armed with spears or daggers.
“We’ve seen some of those blokes before,” Hand whispered.
“Yes, back on Hephaestus,” Folkestone agreed.
“Could it be that Baron Bellaseus is trying to replicate what was done on Hephaestus?” Lady Cynthia asked. “He would need the monoliths like they had there, but I see neither how they could be contained within the castle, nor how he could hope to tap into the same reservoir of energy made available due to the massive gravity fluctuations of the Sun.”
“It may still be in the development stages,” Folkestone said. “As far as the Mills, they could easily be a distance away, in the mountains, perhaps, just as the others were away on the plain.”
“Hopefully,” Hand added, “they haven’t figured out all the problems with setting up shop on Earth.”
“It must not reach operational status,” Folkestone declared.
“It may be time to contact London,” Lady Cynthia pointed out. “With the Royal Navy already at a state of readiness, a concentrated strike can be made is a quarter-hour or less.”
“Much can happen in fifteen minutes,” Folkestone said. “We can return to the ship, but before we leave we should take measures to ensure a spot of bother for these blighters, just in case something should happen to us on the return journey.”
Sergeant Hand patted his backpack. “I think we can take care of that, right enough.”
“Twenty minutes?” Lady Cynthia suggested.
“Fair enough,” Folkestone agreed with a nod.
“If we don’t make it out in ten, we probably won’t make it in twenty,” Hand sighed. “Well, there you are.”
After covertly watching the comings and goings of scientists and technicians in the subterranean gallery, they determined with near precision the location of the new MEDUSA energy weapon. They followed a sloping passage and entered a storage chamber below the facility. In just a few minutes they placed the explosives, set the timers, and started back to the main level of the castle, where they hoped their entrance had not been discovered.
Near the top
of the spiraling passage, they heard a symphony of hisses, as if someone had disturbed a nest of vipers. Suddenly they heard a flurry of talons scratching against the stone steps below. The sound of an alarm klaxon split the night. Since they could not retrace their steps, they entered the corridor running, putting the cries of the Nagas at their backs.
Out the corner of his eye, Folkestone saw the body of the Naga sentry had been found, despite their best efforts. The saurian natives of Venus possessed keen senses of smell at all times, but never was that sense so keen as when death was in the air.
A half-dozen Venusian guards appeared ahead, augmented by a few humans armed with guns. The trio ducked into a side passage. Folkestone and Hand kept the converging guards at bay while Lady Cynthia rushed ahead. Spears clattered around them. From time to time, a piece of ancient stone was nicked by a bullet, but it was clear the humans were content to let the Nagas take the lead, and the brunt of the gunfire.
“We are in a pickle, boys,” Lady Cynthia gasped. “It ends in a blind storage room. No way out.”
“If we retreat to the storage room, we’ll have an easier time fighting those blokes off,” Hand said.
“At least for the next eighteen minutes,” Folkestone remarked dryly. He looked to Lady Cynthia. “What kind of storage.”
“Nothing that would any difference in a fight,” she replied. “Just crates and barrels of foodstuffs.”
“We shan’t starve,” Hand quipped.
“Naga foodstuffs,” she added.
“I’d rather starve,” Hand grumbled.
They turned their attention fully to the hallway beyond their hiding place. No more spears were being thrown, and the guns of the human guards had fallen silent.
“You in there!” the voice of Baron Bellaseus called. “Come out and you will not be harmed.”
“We have your word on that, do we, mate?” Hand demanded.
“As a matter of fact, my Martian friend, you do.”
“You understand our skepticism,” Folkestone said.
“Certainly,” Bellaseus agreed. “And I cannot blame you. Lately nothing has been what it seemed to be. Friends have turned against me, dreams have become ashes, and even my own blood has proven false. So, yes, I understand why you would be reluctant to take my word for anything, especially your safety. But bear in mind: I seek a new beginning and am sorely in need of information. That being the case, it is much more to my advantage, and perhaps yours as well, to capture rather than kill you.”
“But you do not guarantee our lives,” Lady Cynthia asked.
“Unfortunately, no, not even yours, M’Lady, though I would be loath to harm you, one who is no doubt precious in your father’s eyes,” the Baron replied. “So, I guarantee your immediate safety, but, ultimately, not your lives.”
“Then why should we surrender?” Folkestone demanded.
“Because, as you English say, while there is life there is hope,” Bellaseus said. “Fail to surrender now and you shall have no hope. I will send my Nagas swarming in after you. You could kill a few, perhaps many, but in the end I would be disappointed, you would be dead, and the Nagas would be well fed.”
Folkestone looked at the others. Nagas or not, it was death if they stayed where they were.
“Six of one, half-dozen of the other, sir,” Hand said, shrugging.
“I’ll take hope over futility any day,” Lady Cynthia said.
“Your answer?” Bellaseus demanded. “Our little misadventure on Hephaestus should have taught you I am pragmatic, but not at all patient. Your answer, now!”
Folkestone nodded.
Hand pulled his short-bladed Martian fighting sword from its scabbard and slipped it down his tunic collar, shivering a little as the cold metal, forged generations earlier from a fallen meteor, slipped along his spine. He tossed the scabbard into the darkness behind them. He undid his gun belt and tossed it into the lighted corridor, the others following suit.
“We’re coming out, Baron,” Folkestone replied.
Their weapons were policed by Nagas and given to the human guards. Other Nagas scurried forward and stripped them of their backpacks and harnesses. It was impossible for a human to discern the feelings of a Naga from facial expressions, but Folkestone was sure he caught glints of disappointment in their eyes at being denied a meal. They turned to face their captor.
“Lady Cynthia, I am Baron Wilhelm Bellaseus,” he said. “I assume by your presence here that you, too, were on Hephaestus. I regret not having made the acquaintance of such a lovely young lady, though, of course, you are well known to me.”
“Am I?” she murmured.
“False modesty does not become you, M’Lady,” Bellaseus said. “Your friends may believe you are no more than a dilettante in the British government’s Diplomatic Service Corps, occasionally asked to serve the interests of your father or those pathetic altmodische Narren in Section 6, but we know differently, you and I. After all, I have seen your file. I even know the real story of how you came to lose your eye…and why you dare not have it replaced.”
“You said you were looking for a new beginning,” Folkestone interjected. “That means you’re trying to revive MEDUSA?”
“Would have thought you’d learned your lesson, mate.”
“Hope springs eternal, Sergeant Hand,” Bellaseus replied with a mock turtle smile. He looked to Folkestone. “Not just MEDUSA, Captain, but a new cestus with which to grasp the Solar System, to batter it into submission if necessary.”
“A new weapon?” Folkestone gasped, eyes wide with surprise. “Like the one on Hephaestus? Here?”
“Had you managed to penetrate the lower depths of the castle you would know of it yourselves,” Bellaseus said. “It was a grave error, killing the Naga guard, for they most easily smell the dead of their own kind. Next to fish and humans, it is their favorite meal.”
“You cannot have duplicated the weapon,” Folkestone asserted. “Not in so short a time. The ruins on Hephaestus are still smoking.”
“Fortune does indeed favor the prepared man,” Bellaseus said. “Although I could not foresee all that occurred, I have known for a long time that Lord Khallimar has his…faults. He is very good at inflaming hearts and bending minds, but, ultimately, he is not fit to rule. Once MEDUSA rises from the fire, and Khallimar has outlived his usefulness, I will…suffice to say, our supreme leader will be retired, one way or another.”
“Khallimar might not share that thought,” Folkestone said.
“Perhaps,” Bellaseus admitted. “But he is a guest in my castle, surrounded by my forces. He knows about the weapon, but has no access. He is a dog who has had all his teeth pulled, and you may rest assured he is one cur I will keep on a very short leash. He may chafe under the new limits set upon him, but he will have no choice but to abide by them.”
“MEDUSA is defeated,” Lady Cynthia said. “It will not rise.”
“We shall have to agree to disagree, at least for the moment,” the Baron smirked. “Later, I shall interview each of you, put questions to you and judge the value of your answers. How long you remain alive will depend upon how long you remain of value to me, so carefully consider your situation.” He turned to the guards. “Put them in a confinement cell.” He paused. “Together. This is one time I think a common plight might make them more tractable.”
The guards moved toward the three prisoners, each kept in the sights of one of the humans. Hand looked to Folkestone and arched one eyebrow. The Martian was disappointed when he got a subtle signal to comply, for in his fire-forged psyche even a hopeless battle was better than none at all. He reluctantly let himself be taken.
The Nagas took them to a rough-walled cell and placed them in leg irons. Two of the saurian beings stood guard outside.
“What do we do now, sir?” Hand whispered.
“I think we have only ten minutes remaining,” Lady Cynthia pointed out.
“Lady Cynthia, move as close to the wall as you can and have a fit of hysteric
s,” Folkestone said.
She glared at him hotly.
“Yes, I know,” he admitted sheepishly. “But pretend. Please.”
“The commotion will attract the guards,” Hand explained. “The high pitch of your voice will drive the Nagas stark hissing mad.” He pointed to his own ears. “Sensitive.”
“Very well,” she agreed grudgingly.
“Hand, you take care of the one nearest you, and I’ll handle the other,” Folkestone continued. “These chains are limiting, so we’ll have to wait till they are very close.”
“And if they both do not rush to me?” Lady Cynthia asked. “I would hang back myself, were I one of them.”
“You are much smarter than a Lizard Man, M’Lady, but…”
“Great-Great Granddad’s short sword makes a neat throwing blade,” Hand said before Folkestone could mire himself in trouble. “You just get those two snake-heads in here, and we’ll…”
A soft thump outside the door silenced them. It was followed almost immediately by another whack. The door opened. A woman in black leather backed into the cell, dragging the unconscious Naga sentries, each hand gripping a scaly ankle. One of those hands was of gleaming brass. She closed the door and turned towards them.
“You!” Hand exclaimed. It was the sharp-shooting dolly from the landing bay. Now he understood the meaning of the body on the aethership. “How…”
“Keep your voice down, you fool!” Eck hissed. She crouched and unfastened their leg irons.
“Why are you doing this?” Folkestone asked.
“I have my reasons.”
“You are the source of the MEDUSA information given to us in Paris,” Lady Cynthia said. “You are the traitor.”
Eck snapped her head toward Lady Cynthia. “I am no traitor. I only betray Lord Khallimar; I am loyal to my father.”
“The Baron is…” Hand started to exclaim, then lowered his voice. “The Baron is your…”
“I protect him from Khallimar’s madness,” she said. “Go now. Quickly. This will be discovered soon. I cannot help you further. I have my own problems.”
Amidst Dark Satanic Mills (Folkestone & Hand Interplanetary Steampunk Adventures Book 2) Page 40