"With all due respect, Mr Edison," Chief Hightower began, "I can with a word and a stroke of a pen turn this rescue into an apprehension."
Edison stiffened. "Come again?"
"Agent Braun here is correct. Before you were kidnapped by the Maestro and then subsequently by Dr Jekyll, you were in league with the House of Usher."
"I… I was never in league with Usher!" Edison stammered.
"Fine then, they contracted you to produce a weapon of incredible power. I’m sure, being the educated man that you are, you did not think what such a weapon would be used for. Excavation? Rock carving? Perhaps sculpt a few presidents into the side of a mountain face?"
"Don’t be so ridiculous!"
Hightower stood up, back to his full height. He gave a quick whistle, and two OSM agents pulled themselves off the battle train. "In the time it takes these men to get here, you will reach a decision about what kind of mission this is. If you intend to press charges against Agent Braun here, then I will arrest you."
"Under what charge?"
"Oh, now let me think," he said, scratching at the white and black stubble set against his dark skin. "We have those ships, both aerial and nautical, presumed lost at sea, but which actually fell victim to that death ray of yours." Edison went to respond, but Hightower silenced him by lifting his index finger before him. "Tesla’s design, but your craftsmanship. Perhaps in the future, before you start building weapons for nefarious societies, you should reconsider branding it with your company’s name.
"Then there is the matter of San Francisco, a major city that nearly sank into the Pacific Ocean. The earthquake triggered by your death ray killed hundreds, injured thousands, and crippled for many months one of America’s most important ports."
Doctor Sound cleared his throat. "If I may, Luther?"
"Please, Basil," he replied with a smile.
"There is also the matter of His Royal Highness, Prince Edward. Missing, presumed dead, after a calamity that you had a hand in. Mr Edison, our government and our court system would love to have a talk with you about what happened that day."
Hightower nodded towards his agents now only a few steps away. "Now you may be able to hire the best legal team to help you avoid any potential gaol time, but I have to wonder: how they will protect your reputation? People will hear what happened in North Carolina, in California, and in the AT. Are you sure your business is impregnable to the fallout?"
"This is blackmail," Edison grumbled.
"No, this was the bed you made for yourself when you agreed to the House of Usher’s charge to build Tesla's Death Ray. And this morning, you learn a valuable lesson in business."
"And what lesson would that be?"
"The value of saying 'No' when ethics dictate."
Eliza smiled ever so slightly. Not that she was particularly happy, but this little slice of justice was most satisfying.
The two summoned agents stopped before the three men. Edison looked at the OSM operatives, then to Hightower. His mouth opened, but on consideration he remained quiet, hanging his head.
"Mr Edison is in quite a state. Apparently, those bastards tortured him," Hightower said as he motioned to Edison. One of the agents whispered "Damn..." on looking at the inventor. "Isn’t that right, Mr Edison?"
His one good eye glared at Eliza for a moment, then he swallowed, spat, and slurred, "As you can see for yourselves, Usher was less than hospitable. If you would see me to a physician, I will gladly give you... fine agents of the United States intelligence community... a full account of what happened under the hands of Usher and that madman, Henry Jekyll."
Hightower gave a slow nod to Edison, then turned back to the two agents. "West, Gordon, you follow?"
"Crystal clear, sir," the shorter one replied.
"Right then. Dismissed." The agents lifted Edison to his feet and guided him further down the train. Hightower focused his gaze on Eliza, then said, "Basil, a moment of your time?"
"Of course, Luther," he replied.
The two directors walked into the darkness. At one time, Eliza would have been worried what they were talking about, and if it involved her.
Right now, she did not give a toss.
"Come on, Eliza," Henrietta spoke from beside her. "We'll take one of the ornithopters to the aeroport."
The operation continued shutting down around her. Agents were either assisting those wounded in Usher’s escape, or tending to the few fatally struck by ordinance. Field operatives collapsed equipment and hustled to the cars trailing behind the battle engine. As it was with the Ministry, there would be no evidence come sunrise that OSM or any clandestine organisation had been there. There would be just the track, the desert, Eastwood Ridge, and the remains of a bridge, perhaps taken out in an act of dissonance concerning the AT.
But that was not entirely true.
Turning back, she saw the flickering glow of the bridge’s remains struggling to remain standing in the darkness. Somewhere in that burning rubble of metal and wood was Wellington Thornhill Books. Usher didn’t have him, but neither did she. She had not come to his rescue. She would take this regret to the grave.
When she finally let Henrietta guide her away, she also gave herself permission to cry.
Chapter Thirty-One
A Letter from a Falcon
Dearest Eliza,
With a heavy heart I write to you now, as a colleague in the field of espionage operations—something I never thought of doing—and, I hope, as a friend. As you said those many weeks ago, I knew Wellington Thornhill Books for only a short time. However, in that brief span, I quickly grew to understand how and why you feel so deeply and so strong for him. There are few men in the world that possess his calibre and quality, and I cannot stress enough how important it is for you to hold onto that. His was a life that rarely comes along, and what you can find comfort in—at least I hope you can—is that you were not only fortunate to be a part of that life, but that you were his world. A blind man could have seen the depth of his love just in how he looked at you.
While I consider myself most fortunate to have been in the world at the same time as Wellington Thornhill Books, I must confess to a touch of envy that he never looked at me way he looked at you. I struggle to think of any man that has ever done so. What a beautiful and rare gift to give someone, and more fortunate still for a woman such as you to receive it.
My previous correspondences have gone unanswered, and I understand completely. Do know that in this personal darkness you are enduring, your friends are with you. They can serve as guiding stars, the points of light we all must work and struggle to reach during these times, and I sincerely hope that you consider me as such. I wish I could do something for you, but even if I had the wherewithal, the resources, and the omnipotent knowledge of the universe itself, I would step back in time to somehow prevent all this from happening. Of course, aside from the works of HG Wells, I know as a scientist that such innovations and marvels are pure fantasy. Such limitations of nature break my heart, but not as much as the loss I know you are feeling now.
I have, once again, enclosed my card with this correspondence. Please, at any time, wherever you are in the world, if you need a friend or if you need me as a faithful servant, do not hesitate to contact me. Perhaps you consider us strangers still, or perhaps you look at me just as a comrade from the field. Whatever the case, I am at your service. Now, and always.
Your humble friend and confidant,
Professor Henrietta Falcon
Chapter Thirty-Two
In Which a Case Closes
Eliza endured an onslaught of stares from the other passengers on the hypersteam she took from London to Leeds. The derision and condemnation from the surrounding poms served as motivation—despite her ennui—to upgrade her Hebden Bridge ticket from Second to First Class. Once she had a private cabin all to herself, she could be glum and moody by herself without judgement.
She acknowledged her travelling dress was far from presentabl
e. However, looking shabby was a conscious choice. It was not as if there were foreign dignitaries about or even the Queen herself present. She was instructed to report to Whiterock. Not requested. Ordered. Doctor Sound had issued Bereavement Leave for an indefinite time. “I will call on you when needed,” he had said to her.
Eliza turned the æthermissive in her hands, delivered via courier and carrying the official seal of Her Majesty’s government. All very formal. That being said, Sound had no control over what fashion she chose.
No one had seen Eliza at the Ministry for two months. After Eastwood Ridge, they instructed agents to give her a wide berth, issued before she and Agent Campbell had touched down in Boston. Henrietta was the only one ignoring this order. Perhaps she was not a full agent, but after her contributions to the Ministry, she was brought on as a consultant. Despite the express order of the Director, Henrietta wrote to her weekly. A true friend. It tore Eliza apart not to respond to her faithful correspondence.
She will understand eventually, Eliza assured herself.
While waiting for her connection to Hebden Bridge, Eliza had read the orders again. She would report to Whiterock for reassignment. They would assess her time in the Archives and consider her reinstatement. If she passed muster, she would be placed back into the roster. She had options. Quite a few of them, from the sound of the Director’s æthermissive.
If only she cared at all about that.
Her contact picked her up from the train station. He was a young man, a stranger, so they did not share a word. She strode into Whiterock with her face a mask, and her eyes full of disinterest. None of her fellow agents greeted her or asked how she fared, and that suited her just fine. Cassandra Shillingworth’s shocked expression told her how much she’d changed—and not just in her choice of fashion. With a final deep breath, Eliza tucked the æthermissive into her modest handbag and entered the Director’s office.
Sound was bent over that blasted chrono-model—the source of all her pain, grief, and isolation. According to the Old Man, it should now tick away merrily, showing progress towards a repaired past, present, and future. He was sure—no, convinced—once Wellington agreed to his plan, the device would work properly again. Even if Sound had tried so many times before and failed, this time would fix everything.
Yet, the device remained locked. The timeline still raced towards that blackout Sound had described with such urgency.
Not waiting on ceremony or invitation, Eliza crossed the office to the small table holding a collection of decanters. She didn’t care what kind of whiskey it was. Eliza just wanted a drink.
"Please," Sound spoke from behind her, "help yourself."
"Think I shall," Eliza said, pouring a healthy amount of scotch.
"Although I would question your judgement in having a drink so early in the day."
Her own image reflected back at her in the window overlooking the grounds. The hollow gaze she wore enhanced her pale, sallow complexion. She looked like a ghost of her former self. After a long, slow drink from her trembling glass, she turned to Sound, who gave the slightest of flinches. She wished she could believe his concern. Maybe in this current timeline, she mattered in some universe-expanding way; and now he cared for her well-being.
"Do we really want to discuss questionable judgement?" she asked pointedly.
His concern melted away. "Do have a seat before you collapse, Agent Braun."
With a slight toast of her glass, Eliza took one of the available chairs before the grand desk. She dared not glance at the other empty one beside her. Taking another long slurp from her glass, she watched as Doctor Sound opened the dossier in front of him and reviewed its contents.
"Agent Wellington Thornhill Books, accepted the terms of the prisoner exchange between the Office of the Supernatural and Metaphysical and the House of Usher. However he plummeted to his death after receiving two gunshots to the chest, confirmed by spotters watching from the OSM side of the bridge. Explosive charges were then triggered, bringing down the bridge, but not before myself, Director Luther Hightower, and accompanying Ministry and OSM agents had successfully returned Thomas Edison to safety. There were four deaths, ten wounded." His eyes looked up to Eliza for a brief moment, and then he read, "The injuries to Thomas Edison, while alarming at first sight, were thankfully not life-threatening. He will recover from his apparent torture while in Usher captivity."
"And the world rejoices," Eliza muttered.
"On account of the damage wrought from the demolition of the bridge, neither the Ministry not OSM operatives were able to recover the body of Agent Books. We are maintaining contact with OSM operatives in the Arizona Territories in the hopes of returning his remains to Whiterock."
"He hated this place. He wouldn’t want to rest eternal here."
Sound closed the file and slid it to one side. "I read that aloud not to torture you, but so that you could hear it for yourself. There would be no wild rumour or conjecture. Agent Books, despite our best efforts, is gone."
"Thank you for the clarification, sir. Upon reflection, I should thank him for his graciousness in saving my career after my..." She gave a little chuckle. "... hysterical outburst." Even with the application of scotch, the tremble in her hand wouldn’t stop. "I take it Edison received a full pardon for his involvement with the crimes against his own government and ours?"
"Considering his contributions to society, the Americans reach a compromise…"
Her gaze locked with Sound’s. "Edison’s building the military death rays, isn’t he?"
"That part is classified, Agent Braun. Chief Hightower only offered details to me on Edison’s fate on a need-to-know business."
"So, that’s it, is it? Wellington offers himself as a sacrificial lamb for a man who betrayed his own country for his bank account, and what do we have to show for this effort? Wellington is dead, Edison pardoned, and your bloody device is no longer operating." Eliza barked out a dry laugh as she shook her head. "Well done."
"It should work," Sound insisted, returning his attention to the Timeline Tracker across the room. "This was the only option I had not explored, for obvious reasons."
"What a compassionate manipulator you are," Eliza said with a roll of her eyes.
When his fist struck the desk, she gave a start. Sound’s pudgy face was beet red. If he had been smoking a cigar, he would have chomped through it. "This is not something I take lightly, Miss Braun. I—was—certain." He slumped back into his chair, the redness in his skin fading away.
Shaking her head, Eliza pulled herself upright. The world pitched to one side for a moment. Perhaps I should take this next round a bit slower. She returned to the decanter to refill her tumbler while pouring three fingers’ worth for Doctor Sound.
Don’t say it, she chided herself. Don’t say it. "Director, you did everything you could." You really are an idiot, Eliza D. Braun, she thought. "In a bizarre way—and considering what we do, that is saying something—I understand your frustration."
"Oh, Agent Braun, I do hope not. The last time I struggled like this, I was trying to retrieve all twenty of the Staff to the safety of Event Control."
Eliza furrowed her brow as she offered him a glass. "Twenty? But I only saw ten."
"There were twenty." He gave a slight scowl as he grumbled, "Bloody Morlocks."
He took the glass from her grasp and toasted to her as she returned to her seat.
"Time travel, I thought, would be like your fanciful stories. Go back in time, point King Arthur in the direction of the sword in the stone. Travel to the future. Watch a woman become Prime Minister of New Zealand. It’s far more complicated, isn’t it?"
"That it is."
"So we learn. We move forward."
"Yes..." The glass paused, and his eyes glimmered. "Unless..."
A chill crept under her skin. "Doctor Sound?"
"It dawns on me," he said, a slight grin coming to his lips, "that I’ve been returning to the time when Wellington was first recruit
ed for the Ministry, and I’ve been popping throughout the timeline just to make sure the progress was identical. His performance in the Archives. His abduction. Meeting you..."
"You were there? In Antarctica?"
"From a distance, yes." Sound chortled. "It is quite astonishing how Time adjusts when altered. Things remain the same, but end up entirely different. What I am conjecturing, is that I chose the wrong subject. Perhaps, instead of focusing on the arrival of Wellington Books, I should focus on you?"
Eliza’s chill instantly became a fire. "Really? Do tell."
"As I said before, you both are the constants, and all this time, I focused on Wellington. I think, when I go back, I should spend more time focused on you. Perhaps it is a past case or an encounter with someone that is causing us to come to this—"
"An immovable point," Eliza said, on his behalf.
Sound smiled, took a deep drink of his scotch, and nodded, reaching into his coat pocket for a small journal of some description. A diary, perhaps? "Yes, exactly."
“And you are telling me all this because…?”
He waved a hand in the air as if he were shooing away a bothersome insect. “You won’t exist. This present you, I mean. All this? Gone. Once I go back, the events and their outcome of this timeline will dissipate into the æther. None of this will have happened, you see? A new timeline will emer—”
"You. Utter. Creep."
The Director looked up from his journal, his newfound elation faltering. "I... I'm sorry?"
"Do you hear yourself? When you go back? Do you want Wellington to relive his optimism of meeting someone special only to discover she was an assassin? Do you want me to relive the grief when I lost Harry? Do you want me to go through the loss that I am feeling now? Again?"
"Oh for God's Sake, Miss Braun, this is time travel I talk of. You won't experience these emotions again. When I travel into the past, events and outcomes get altered. This current existence will have never happened."
Operation: Endgame (Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Book 6) Page 29