Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences

by Pip Ballantine

  The house seemed a bit of a blur to Arthur, the details growing less distinct with each beat of his pounding heart, though later he would recall a collection of antique furniture and shelves heavy with leather bound books. From somewhere upstairs Arthur heard muffled voices and what sounded like heavy furniture being dragged across the floor.

  When they finally stopped at the base of a grand stairwell, Arthur whispered, “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  “A good friend and advisor for the Ministry,” Bernard said. “Spent some time learning to fight in the Orient, something called Bartitsu.”

  “Never heard of it. Remarkable!”

  “Isn’t it, though? Our little secret, at least for now. But mark my words, when it gets out it’ll be all the rage in a few years.”

  “I can see why,” Arthur replied, looking at Bernard in a seemingly whole new light. “What now?”

  “They always go up,” Bernard said in a conversational tone as he mounted the staircase. That satisfied smile had grown even wider, and though Arthur felt as though he struggled to breathe from all the excitement, Bernard sounded no more impaired than if he was remarking on the weather to an acquaintance he chanced to meet in the park. “Never understood that.”

  “What’s that?” Arthur asked, his eyes darting to the upper level. Wasn’t Bernard worried about being discovered?

  “Cornered men,” Bernard said. He reached the top of the stairs, paused, held out a hand to indicate Arthur should stop as well. “They always go up, when they should go out,” Bernard said, too loudly, obviously baiting those others who might be listening. Bernard leaned out for a peek around the corner and ducked back with lightning speed—just as well, too, as there was a thunderous blast as some sort of rifle or shotgun was discharged. The bullet ripped a chunk out of the corner and sprayed Bernard with plaster, making it look as though he had been dusted with flour.

  “Oh, come now,” the agent said, face positively twisted with disgust as he looked at the mess. “Is there really any call for this?” Bernard reached into his coat pocket and threw something around the corner out of sight. “Best to close your eyes,” he added, not quite in time for Arthur to take action. There was a tremendous flash, not quite equal to a lightning strike but certainly cousin to one, followed by a man’s pained shout and another blast. “Just be a moment,” Bernard said, vanishing around the corner. There was a cry of pain, the scuffing of shoes on the floorboards, then another heavy crash.

  “You can come out now,” Bernard’s voice called from the corridor.

  “Thank you,” Arthur rubbed at his dazzled eyes, shaking his head instinctively to try to chase away the patches of colour lingering in his eyes. Arriving in the upstairs hallway, he looked past the open doors to more rooms of tasteful opulence and focused instead on Bernard. The agent was standing over the unconscious form of a heavyset man slumped against the only closed door in the hallway. A shotgun had been kicked away from his grasp, though judging by the nob already rising on his temple he was unlikely to wake any time soon. Bernard was rapping on the door with the head of his cane impatiently; his good humour apparently another casualty of the plaster dust.

  “Richard? Mr Richard Henry? Open the door, please.” Bernard huffed before knocking again. “We haven’t come to hurt you. Open the door and let us discuss matters like gentlemen. There’s nothing to be gained by acting the petulant child now, I assure you.”

  “I have a gun! If you come in I’ll shoot!” The voice was high with fear and tension but unmistakably still quite young. “I swear I will!”

  “No, you won’t,” Bernard said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “If you’d had a weapon you’d have used it by now, and we both know it. Come now. Don’t make matters any more difficult than they have to be. I promise, no harm will come to you.”

  There was a long silence, then the sound of the door unlocking. It swung open to reveal a nervous-looking young man with thinning brown hair. He stepped back immediately as Bernard entered, Arthur following, and all but tripped over himself in his haste. “You’re British agents, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” Bernard said simply.

  “Well, on paper, I’m an archivist,” Arthur stammered. Bernard glared at him. “But, ah, close enough.”

  “Well then,” Richard Henry said, drawing himself up a bit, “I’d say that you have no authority here, but I doubt that would stop you so I won’t waste my breath. We always knew you’d find us eventually. But you’ll never find the device. Not in time, at any rate.”

  “We already—” Arthur began, but Bernard cut him off with another venomous look and pulled him a few steps away. “What?”

  “Don’t say anything you don’t have to,” the agent hissed, watching Richard carefully.

  “But, the location of the transatlantic cable is a matter of record,” Arthur whispered. “Surely he’s aware of that?”

  “Do rational men plot conspiracies?” Bernard replied, perhaps a touch too sharply. He collected himself, stepped back to Richard. “Of course, Richard. We are doomed, all of us, I’m sure. Speaking of our untimely demise, where is the rest of your intrepid band also bringing forth the end of days?” Bernard asked. “Seems a bit rude of them to leave you here to face us by yourself.”

  “And let you potentially capture all of us at one go? I think not.” Richard swallowed heavily, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. “I volunteered. It is my solemn duty to resist the forces of the Illegitimate Monarchy—”

  “Yes, yes, I applaud your martyrdom, now about this technological terror of yours,” Bernard interjected, “exactly what does it do?”

  Richard simply stared at him, trying for noble defiance and managing a passable semblance of it. Right up until the point where Bernard stepped toward him and brought the end of the cane up under his chin, anyway, at which point his stony demeanour crumbled.

  “It’s a resonant frequency generator,” Richard said quickly. “It generates very specific wavelengths that destroy particular kinds of matter attuned to the device. Our first field trials proved successful beyond our wildest dreams—avalanches, rockslides, and tremors. And our most recent project, for instance? British bedrock.” He managed a weak smile. “Might not be enough to sink the wretched island, but it should do enough damage that there will be no recourse but to recognise us as the legitimate heirs.”

  “You’re joking,” Bernard said flatly. “Actually, no, strike that. You’re mad.”

  “I don’t believe he is,” Arthur said, studying Richard’s face carefully. He was flushed and still sweating profusely, and swallowing every few moments. “Joking. I do not believe he is joking. I think he’s telling us the truth.” He leaned in an inch closer to Richard, and nodded. “And yes, he is quite mad.”

  “Oh?” Bernard asked, not turning away from Richard. “How do you know?”

  “Because dying men rarely lie,” Arthur said. “Look at him. He must have taken something before we came in. Some sort of poisonous failsafe.”

  “Richard? Is this true?” In response, Richard simply pitched forward, a slight trickle of foam issuing from his lips as Bernard and Arthur caught him by his armpits. The agent lowered Richard to the floor, his face screwed up in even more peevish displeasure, as though Richard’s impending suicide were somehow an insult to his person. “Why’d you build it? Tell me, you sorry sod!”

  “Wanted…” Richard coughed thickly, further ruining Bernard’s suit. “Wanted to show…the full extent …of our…” But his last words were gurgled more than uttered, and after a sudden, shuddering spasm, Richard laid his head back and breathed his last.

  “It simply astounds me how self-centred lunatics are. Truly. Quite selfish.” Bernard stood up, the look of disdain never faltering. “As though anyone even knew enough about them to question their resolve until they took up this lunatic endeavour.”

  “At least we know what the device is supposed to do,” Arthur said, trying not to look at the body. He didn’
t desire to experience his breakfast in reverse. “That’s something. It explains the rock slides too. They must have been testing it locally before they moved forward with this insane scheme.”

  “That makes sense,” Bernard acknowledged tersely. He gripped his cane so tightly that his knuckles cracked. “At least to lunatic minds such as these. Best we head to the cable facility then, I imagine. If they were prepared to receive us here, I’ve no doubt they have more waiting.”

  “I have an idea about that,” Arthur offered. “Something that might not involve something quite so dramatic as storming a facility of armed men, but perhaps a bit more effective. “We should get underway, then, before we’ve lost the light entirely. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  “Certainly,” Bernard said. “I will tell you something, though.” He stared the young researcher right in the eye, deadly serious. “If I ever find the penny dreadful author responsible for popularising these damned poison pills, I will give that man a thorough thrashing. Never give the silly blighters ideas.”

  The agent shook his head, daring to glance down at Richard. “Ideas just lead to trouble, really.”

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Bernard muttered, staring at the building down the road where Richard Henry’s device was contained. Whoever was inside had certainly noticed him—he made no particular effort to hide, not that there was much he could have done on with the sandy scrub and nearly full moon in a cloudless sky overhead. For their part, their light discipline was terribly shoddy, and he kept seeing dark shapes crossing in front of the windows. Had he been a marksman, things might have been very different, but he wasn’t, and so this would be resolved another way.

  A loud hum began emanating from the building, the vibration strong enough that it was starting to make his teeth hurt. Evidently they were making ready to use the device, which meant it was time to put Arthur’s plan in motion.

  Bernard raised his pistol and fired at the ground floor windows. His shooting skills were a bit rusty, so he was pleasantly surprised to find that all three shots struck home, shattering glass and eliciting distant shouts of surprise from within.

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider surrender?” Bernard shouted, still annoyed that he was forced to use a pistol for this stage of the plan but seeing it through regardless.

  “Imperialist dog!” The speaker was trying for furious outrage but an edge of panic ruined the effect. “We’ve been waiting for you! You’re about to witness our moment of triumph!”

  “Well, I daresay that’s a problem right there,” Bernard said, taking a lazy shot at the sill where a head was slowly poking up and sending it back out of sight. “Never wait for your enemy to start going about your business, old son. Just gives them time to manoeuvre. You should’ve taken care of things while we were meeting with poor Richard.”

  “You’ll pay for what you’ve done, you royalist swine!”

  Bernard winced at the melodramatic retort, absently wondering if they had stolen more than just their penchant for poison pills from the penny dreadfuls. He allowed himself the consolation of replying with another bullet, sending the silhouettes away from the windows again.

  Bernard fired his remaining shot just to discourage anyone from sticking their head up for a moment, and pulled out the bulky canister that Arthur had given him. Supposedly all he had to do was shake the contents and throw it; that seemed a bit simple for Bernard, but then, he wasn’t the expert in such matters. Arthur might just be an archivist and not a full Ministry scientist yet, but he was as close as Bernard was going to get in these circumstances. So he shook it twice, hearing the rattling of the metal and the shifting of the powder, and threw it as hard as he could.

  The canister hit the side of the building and exploded with a loud cracking bang, pushing back the darkness with a bright flash and coating the wall with flame. Bernard stepped back and reloaded his revolver as smoke billowed from the point of impact. He could hear shouting from inside the structure as the flames spread; it certainly seemed as though Arthur knew his stuff. Research and Development might soon have a new addition after all. Bernard’s portion of the plan was just about concluded, save for rounding up the members fleeing the burning building.

  After a minute passed, however, and then another, with still no break in the humming sound of the device or the emergence of any of the society members, Bernard grew concerned. Why weren’t they trying to escape? Perhaps they were trying to complete their work on the device, but there was also the chance that these rapscallions were eager to martyr themselves as Richard had and relishing the thought of leaving charred remains behind. Idly, Bernard wondered if the device was even vulnerable to fire, or if burning it might have some catastrophic effect, but supposed it was too late now.

  Another long moment passed, the whole side of the building and part of the roof now on fire.

  Bernard let out a long sigh as the front door of the manor suddenly flew open, loosing a veritable pillar of smoke in the process, and coughing, ash-covered men, all of them staggering to safety before collapsing on the sandy ground. A half dozen of them, apparently well-dressed before the fire ruined their clothes. Bernard walked over and pulled the nearest of them away from the fire, keeping the rest of the group covered with his revolver all the while. The building burned merrily, but it was not until the roof collapsed a bit later that the hum finally stopped.

  Around the same time, a shivering, bedraggled Arthur walked up from the direction of the surf. He surveyed the prisoners, now ringed in a sullen half-circle as they watched their ambitions drift away on the smoke, his teeth chattering so loudly it sounded like dice clattering inside a cup. “D-D-Did we stop it?” he asked.

  “Judging by the state of things here?” Bernard removed his topcoat and suit jacket, and placed them around the young man’s shoulders. “I’d certainly say so.”

  “A-A-Are you s-s-sure? I’m s-s-soaked. D-D-Damn b-boat cuh-cuh-capsized on me.”

  “Of course,” Bernard said, casually pointing the pistol at a man attempting to scoot a few more feet away. He left it pointed until the conspirator sulkily moved back to his original place. “Just look at the place. No, keep it on. Jacket’s already ruined anyway. Might as well ensure you are not ruined either.” The agent gave the young researcher the barest of nods, and yet Arthur felt as though he had been granted a tremendous sort of honour along with the suit jacket.

  “So what happens now?” Arthur asked, letting the heat of the blaze wash over him.

  “I expect the local authorities are already on their way, so it will be time for me to use the identification the Ministry arranged just to smooth things over a bit, put this lot in custody, and arrange for proper transportation back to Britain. I expect this lot have an interesting trial in their future.”

  “I see,” Arthur said. A long moment passed as they watched as another timber collapse into the inferno. “You weren’t supposed to burn the building down, you know.”

  “Oh, I do.” Bernard replied, a pleasant, slightly faraway smile on his face, the blaze reflecting on his spectacles so that it looked as though his eyes were aflame.

  “Yes, well, that device I gave you? I designed it to be a smoke bomb for misdirection while I rowed out to deliver the counter-insulator to the cables. In a matter of moments the device would have been useless anyway, without further property damage.”

  “Oh, I know. And you did instruct me not to throw it at the building directly.” Bernard shrugged. “I decided we needed a contingency.”

  “And your contingency is to burn down the whole building? Device inside?”

  “The world is better without that monstrosity in it,” the agent answered.

  Arthur didn’t protest. Bernard chose to omit his suspicion a search of Richard’s house might provide plenty of material to reconstruct one. That would be for his higher-ups to determine.

  “I see.” Arthur heard a whistle, turned and saw a party of men bearing lanterns heading their way from back i
n the direction of town. The two Ministry agents waved cheerfully. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Agent Entwhistle.”

  “You too, Mr Kraft.” Bernard furrowed his brows, clearly thinking something over. “Oh, and regarding that application you mentioned before? I think I’ll be putting in a word when I return. I do believe you might be put to better use closer to the home office. We could always use more men with your eye for detail and quick hands in the lab.” He cracked the barest of smiles. “Or a new strong back for the office rowing team, at least.”

  “The home office? Are you serious?” Arthur’s eyes went wide with almost childlike surprise. “Of course. I’d be delighted!”

  “Good,” said Bernard, removing his identification from his pocket. He glanced over his shoulder as the far wall pitched forward into the flames, sending a shower of sparks skyward. “Because it would be delightful working together, and…”His sentence was punctuated by a roar as the last of the building collapsed behind them. Yes, Doctor Sound would have a few words with him about clandestine operations overseas. “… and I have a feeling I may not be leaving Britain again for some time.”

  Where the River Shines

  Dan Rabarts

  based on characters created by Grant Stone

  Tarawera Ranges

  North Island, New Zealand

  1896

  With a sick gasp and the stink of burning metal, the tractor’s propane motor rattled to a halt.

  “Uh-oh.” Barry Ferguson’s voice filtered into the hansom. Lachlan King heard the young man hop down from the cab with a squelch of mud, probably sinking up to his knees in the quagmire that had once been the track they had been following.

  Lachlan popped open the hatch of the covered hansom, and peered out into the downpour. “Ferguson? What’s the hold-up? We have a thief to catch, remember?”