The Apollonian Case Files

by Mark A. Latham

  Tesla barely flinched. ‘If there is one thing I learn from the long years of captivity, Captain,’ Tesla said, his tone now very sincere, ‘it is that I am worth more alive than dead. I am – what you say? – commodity? To you, and more so to your employers. Cherleten, is it? I know him from the Otherside. I wonder if your version is as mean of spirit? Ah, I see from that look that he is; and yet you are loyal to him! Oh, you military men are all the same, only your flag it change.’

  ‘That is not so,’ Jim said. ‘My association with Lord Cherleten is about to come to an end. Look, Mr Tesla, you have my word that you will be treated as a gentleman.’

  ‘But I am not gentleman, Captain Denny. I am a poor boy from Smiljan, too long locked away from the world I was born to change. If Miss Furnival not change her mind about coming with me, then I must bid you both farewell.’

  ‘You have forced my hand, sir,’ Jim said. He gave the nod to Butterfield, who made his way to the gangplank and hesitantly climbed across towards the Munjolovac’s hatch.

  ‘I would not do that…’ Tesla said.

  Butterfield put his hands on the hull to steady himself, and let out a cry as his arms were pushed violently away from the vessel by some unseen force. The man was thrown to the ground, where he crumpled in a heap.

  ‘I warn you,’ Tesla said. ‘Counter-measures. The ’ Lovac is jealous mistress, no? She not allowing any to put hands on me ever again. Now, Miss Furnival – will you come?’

  Marie looked to Tesla, then to Jim, and back. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Whatever fate may lie in wait for me, Mr Tesla, it will be my own. I think your destiny lies elsewhere. Perhaps our paths shall cross again someday.’

  Jim hobbled to the gangplank and helped Butterfield back to the platform. He looked across the water, where the gates were now open to reveal the Thames beyond, and a paling sky overhung with black clouds. An electrical storm raged outside, wind howling, lightning forking. Jim looked up at Tesla once more.

  ‘You can do more good here,’ Jim said. ‘You can work with our scientists, to protect us against the Riftborn, and whatever else lies out there.’

  ‘I cannot stay, Captain Denny. Your government does not want to protect itself – it wish to build weapons. The Nightwatch, the gates, the guns – all of it to grow powerful. They court disaster, and they think it wisdom. I cannot work for your government, or be the puppet of any other. I have spent too-long time in captivity, peddling wares for those who threaten me. I have use my genius for nothing more than destruction. I can produce such devices that would make the Riftborn pale in comparison. No more! Believe me, Captain – if I stay, you may live to see man-made horrors beyond your comprehension. I will not be responsible. I go now, back to where all this began, to find a way of my own, far from the madness of lesser men.’

  Tesla popped his head inside the submarine, and the vessel sprang to life with a judder. He reappeared, waving with surprising cheer. Even as he did so, the storm beyond the sluice-gate grew louder. Thunder rumbled overhead, and a fell wind blew into the dock, which smelled of smoke.

  ‘What is happening out there?’ Jim shouted over the noise of thunder and the submarine’s engines.

  ‘The gate, when it awaken, it draw power from the very heavens. Aha! That is why this ship get its name, Captain Denny. Munjolovac. It mean “storm hunter”. Most apt, no? Now we go to find the greatest storm of all – the very first storm, where it begin, and where maybe it end. Perhaps that is my destiny, Miss Furnival. I think you are right. Farewell, Miss Furnival, the bravest lady I ever know. May you find the peace that you are deserving. Farewell, Captain Denny.’

  And with that, Tesla closed the hatch. Moments later, the segmented armour plates of the Munjolovac rippled like the scales of a living creature, and the vessel snaked eel-like beneath the surface of the water, a trail of dark bubbles marking its path through the sluice-gate, and out into the Thames, where the silhouettes of Royal Navy vessels waited silently, for a foe they could not see.

  ‘That’s that, I guess,’ Marie said, regret clear in her voice.

  Jim said nothing. Now that he’d finally stopped, and had the time to consider all that had happened, he felt empty inside. John Hardwick was gone. After everything they had been through, he was gone. Jim clenched his fists. The old wound in his hand was playing up, making it hard to close his fingers. It sent pain shooting up Jim’s arm, and he savoured it. He did not know whether to laugh or cry, to shout out or simply walk away into the dark tunnels to be alone with his thoughts. He closed his eyes, and when he did he saw the shadow on the sky, and heard it pricking at the corners of his mind, peeling away at his nerves bit by bit. When he opened his eyes, he fancied he could still see the shadow, out there across the river. Marie was looking at him expectantly. The survivors were, too. They’d seen enough horrors for one lifetime. Jim had seen enough for several.

  And that was what plagued his thoughts. The power that the Artist had wielded but briefly could still be harnessed. Even if Cherleten and Dr Crookes were stopped, there would be others. And the shadow would watch, and bide its time.

  ‘Captain Denny? James?’ Marie said, frowning concern.

  The only person who ever called him James before he’d met Miss Furnival had been Jane.

  Jim took a deep breath. For a moment he asked himself what John would do. There was a time not so long ago that he knew exactly what the answer would be. John would have taken to the boats as Miss Furnival suggested, and reported to Cherleten. He’d probably have shot Tesla, too, as a matter of national security. But that had been the old John Hardwick. If he was here now, knowing everything that his actions had wrought, what would he do? If he had a chance to be the man he wanted to be, rather than the one moulded by a tyrannical father and a life of war, what then?

  In the end, Jim knew he could not compare himself to John Hardwick any longer. Instead, he closed his eyes and pictured Jane. His greatest failing as a man of honour. She had always been proud of her dashing cavalryman, because she had never truly seen into his heart. Only now did Jim realise how much he wanted to be the man Jane Pennyforth had thought he was.

  Jim made his decision. In silence, he marched away from his group, towards the sluice-gate controls – towards the detonator. He took the ring of keys from around his neck, and sorted the red key from its fellows. He heard footsteps behind him. When he reached the box, Miss Furnival was by his side. As he held up the key to the detonator panel, she placed a hand gently over his.

  ‘Jim… what are you doing?’

  ‘What’s right,’ he said. He looked her straight in the eye. ‘The Lazarus Gate is back there, stronger than ever. Tesla’s machinery can’t fall into the wrong hands – Cherleten’s hands. I’m done standing by while the power-hungry steer us towards destruction. I’m done hunting down desperate men, women and children – killing them – for… for this.’

  She nodded slowly. Jim swore her mouth turned upwards at the corners, just a fraction. Her large eyes sparkled. ‘There’ll be hell to pay,’ she said.

  ‘Hell be damned,’ Jim said. Now they both smiled.

  Miss Furnival took away her hand. Jim pushed the key into position, turned it, and stepped away as something clunked, followed by a light, rhythmic ticking.

  ‘We have five minutes.’ Jim turned and shouted, ‘All hands to the lifeboats. At the double! Someone get Butterfield. And don’t forget Crookes – mustn’t deny the gallows-men their due.’

  Soon they were underway, slipping through the sluice-gate and out of the shadow of the docks.

  Overhead, lightning flashed again against tumultuous clouds that glowed with a red rind heralding dawn. A jagged streak lit up the sky, striking the great scaffolds that encased Tower Bridge. For a second, perhaps even as the Serbian’s remarkable submarine passed beneath, electricity snaked between the twin towers of the bridge.

  Like Tesla coils.

  THIRTY

  Jim and Melville marched side-by-side up the broad path to the Tower o
f London. Ten Special Branch constables strode alongside them. Dr Crookes was dragged in tow. They had watched half of St Katharine’s collapse into the Thames, gouts of flame extinguished by the onrushing river, leaving a smouldering pit in its wake.

  They had made no secret of their intent since Jim’s lifeboat had landed. Jim had reported directly to Melville, handing over what scant evidence they had collected, and extracting a statement from Amworth. Crookes had remained tight-lipped, but he would break. Jim and Melville had held a council of war, and now intended to enact the will of that council.

  The Prime Minister was informed. Queen Victoria was informed. Lord Cherleten was to be arrested.

  The Tower guards waved them through the gates. They ascended the steps of the Develin Tower, and rapped loudly on the door to the first-floor chamber. When no response came they attempted entry, but found the door barricaded. Soldiers were called to break down the door, and laboured hard to push through the pile of heavy medieval furniture behind it. It must have taken no small endeavour for the single occupant of the room. Finally, Jim squeezed through.

  Cherleten was dead.

  He sat in a great carved chair, like a throne. His brains were dashed over the stone of an ancient fireplace. Blood trickled from his mouth. A small pistol lay beside him on the floor. A few feet away, upon the ledge of the room’s only window, was a note. It read simply:

  Ever have I sought to further the strength of our great nation, and this most exalted Order, and ever has that strength come through great sacrifice. It pains me to leave Apollo Lycea in the hands of those lesser men who lack the strength to do what is necessary. This latest foe has faltered at the last. But there will be other enemies, stronger ones, in the years to come. And there will be none amongst my peers with the foresight or fortitude to defeat them.

  If I have one regret, it is the death of one Sir Toby Fitzwilliam. His demise came about because I allowed an enemy to blame him for my own deeds, and that was a failure of courage on my part. What Sir Toby lacked in vision, he compensated for in honour. Prince Albert Victor begged for the Iscariot Sanction, that he might be cured of his ills – that he might serve his Empire as commander of the wampyr. He knew the risks full well, and unfortunately the process was unsuccessful. What we learned from said process, however, was invaluable.

  And yet, we could not abandon our work, not even for the prince’s sake. The Russians – already known to be buying black-market Otherside artefacts – were implicated, by my testimony, and it was Sir Toby who signed the sanctions against the Russian czar. His assassination was a direct consequence of this action, and one that I had not foreseen. As some small recompense, I bestowed upon my men the means to avenge this injustice, at the expense of the Order’s St Katharine Dock facility. I see now, at the end, that justice was served.

  With my one sin duly confessed, I go now to a place where I shall be judged not by men of lesser ambition, but by God, our Great Architect. I go safe in the knowledge that I shall not be found wanting.

  For God, Queen & Country,

  AC

  * * *

  Monday, 9th October 1893, 9.00 a.m.

  GOWER STREET, LONDON

  Jim’s fingers jabbed away at the keys of the typewriter. He had never quite got to grips with the thing, but hand-written reports were a thing of the past.

  He barely noticed when Mrs Whitinger entered with a tray of tea things, and he turned around at once as she set them down, noting the look of surprise on his landlady’s face as she saw the mess around the room.

  ‘Captain Denny, these cases… Are you taking a trip?’

  ‘Ah. I was going to speak with you about that, Mrs Whitinger, but I’m afraid it’s all happened rather quickly. As it happens, yes, I am taking a trip, and I expect it will be a lengthy one. Should I return –’

  ‘You think you may not?’ she asked, anxiety writ upon her. She had been in a mind to fuss ever since Jim had returned home injured – there was no other reason she would play housemaid and wait upon her lodgers, even ones as favoured as Jim.

  ‘I did not mean to sound so dramatic, Mrs Whitinger. But you know how it is. I shall send word, of course.’

  ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘Today, I expect. I must finish packing, and I have some business to attend to here first, but then I put out to sea.’

  ‘Might I ask where you are going, in case anyone asks?’

  ‘If anyone asks, I would hope you tell them to mind their own business. I cannot say for certain in any case. To start with, north, to colder climes I think. After that… wherever the fates deign to take me.’

  ‘Another adventure, Captain, and you so frail… Is it to do with those terrible bombs the other night?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, but I doubt I’ll be blown up any time soon. Do not fret on my account, dear lady. A few more scars merely adds to my already prodigious reputation.’ He winked at her, and she shook her head disapprovingly.

  ‘Never change, Captain Denny.’

  ‘Never, Mrs Whitinger.’

  As soon as the landlady had left, Jim turned back to his typewriter, a bittersweet smile on his lips, and concluded his report.

  On the subject of Colonel John Hardwick, it is my belief that, although he may yet survive on the Otherside, the chance of him returning to us in any fit state is negligible. Therefore, it is with regret that I must recommend Colonel Hardwick be presumed dead at this time, and his heroism unto death, which saved my life and the lives of several allies, be marked with a posthumous commendation.

  * * *

  Jim leaned back in his chair. He considered, even now, whether to confess what he knew about Tesla. He thought on Tesla’s words at the end: ‘Now we go to find the greatest storm of all – the very first storm, where it begin, and where maybe it end.’

  Alaska. It had to be. The place where William James had first seen the phenomenon that would become a portal; where he had slipped through the veil accidentally, causing the Othersiders to begin their research into gates in earnest. Jim knew he was inviting a world of trouble by withholding the information. But whatever Tesla was up to, Jim knew one thing only: it was not for Apollo Lycea to know. The Order was all but over. Even now, shadowy conclaves discussed whether to reinstate Apollo Lycea, or let it die with its inner circle. Men of ambition clamoured to assume command. Other agencies argued for the Order’s demise. Bad enough that somewhere out there was the equipment that Cherleten had smuggled out of the docks facility. It still had not been found.

  No. Better that these faceless bureaucrats and spymasters who picked the bones of the Order’s carcass knew nothing of Tesla. He could be presumed dead also.

  And so Jim bound up his report, addressed it to William Melville, and continued his packing. Other arrangements had already been made. Other loyalties secured, or paid for. Other avenues investigated. Jim rather liked the idea of becoming a wanted man; now that certainly would add to his prodigious reputation.

  * * *

  Jim’s first port of call that morning was Hampstead, to his old home that had more in common with a modest country house than a London abode. He had not returned to it for over a year. Not since Jane.

  He alighted from his cab and made his way to the ivy-covered house. He leaned heavily on Hardwick’s cane as he went. He found it reassuring.

  The servants admitted him with warmth in their smiles, and directed him to the library. Jim ascended the stairs, across a long landing, from whose walls his advance was monitored by the portraits of great heroes, and beady eyes of mounted stag’s heads. He stopped outside the door of the library, took a deep breath, and was about to knock when he heard a voice from within.

  ‘Enter, Captain.’

  Jim muttered a small prayer, and swung open the door.

  Colonel Denny stood beside his bookshelves, a great tome in his hands, squinting at rows of old volumes of military history, many signed by heroes of war, Nelson among them. The colonel turned to regard his son with e
yes that had lost none of their steel through age.

  ‘The prodigal returns,’ Colonel Denny said, voice a rumble due to a lifelong predilection for brandy and cigars.

  ‘But briefly, Father,’ Jim said.

  ‘Run out of money have you? I see you have spent last month’s allowance as quickly as it was paid. Hope you’re not at the gambling houses again.’

  ‘No, Father… though my financial provision is not quite adequate for –’

  ‘– For the lifestyle to which you have become accustomed?’ The old man beheld Jim with a look of great disapproval.

  ‘No, Father, as it happens. That is not why I’m here. Not exactly, anyway.’

  ‘Not exactly, eh? So it is about money.’

  ‘No. That is, it is more about why I’m spending it.’

  The colonel slammed shut the book he was holding, and put it down on a table beside him. ‘Do I want to know?’ he asked.

  ‘I am sure I could not disclose the full details. You know how it is.’

  ‘Yes, I know. That bloody club and its bloody rules. No fit occupation for an honest man.’

  ‘Father, we have exchanged harsh words on this matter in the past, and I am here to tell you that you were right. That you are still right.’

  ‘Eh?’ The old man looked decidedly off-guard. That was the colonel – always ready for a fight; always out of his depth when one was not forthcoming.

  ‘Father, I apologise unreservedly for the pain I have caused you, and I shall send apologies again to the Pennyforths, should they wish to hear them. I apologise also for not listening to you on certain matters surrounding my… secondment… to a certain organisation, and the way I left Horse Guards. I did what I thought was right at the time, and I have learned the hard way that I should have regarded your wisdom on the subject more highly.’

  ‘Oh. Well… yes, you should.’