Operation: Endgame (Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Book 6)

by Pip Ballantine

  "How do you know for certain? Are you sure that your meddling does not carry some far-reaching effect? You don’t. You think that if you can give the fabric of reality just a few more cross stitches, everything will be perfect.

  "But what if it isn’t, Mr. H G ‘I got me a bloody time machine’ Wells? What if you find that it isn’t Wellington joining the Ministry? Or that it isn’t my own recruitment? What then? Go back to when he was born? Or perhaps when I was? Remove us from the equation completely? What then? Oh, but did you consider between serialising stories and running operations for secret agents, that if there were no Wellington Thornhill Books or Agent Braun, there would be no one to stop the Phoenix Society? Then while the Ministry would deal with the infiltration of those wankers, San Francisco would slip into the sea carrying Prince Edward with it. And with OSM engaged, no one would know that the right hand of Her Majesty was in fact under the microscope of a madman, crafting a Diamond Jubilee that would result the death of millions." Another wave of nausea swept over her. She was drinking too fast. After a moment, she returned her gaze to the man calling himself Doctor Sound. This time for whatever queer reason—possibly on account of the drink—she need to use his real identity . "Where and when does your playing God end, Mr Wells?"

  Polishing off his own drink, Sound leaned forward in his chair and steepled his fingers before him. "Such is the science behind what I do. It never ends. It is infinite, and I am charged to fix whatever this blackout is."

  “By whom? Not by me. Certainly not by God either.”

  “Perhaps under the influence of drink is not the right time to debate about the existence of God.” He took in a deep breath. "Perhaps you do not grasp what I am doing here, but I must try again."

  Eliza nodded, rising from her chair. "If, in fact, you are going off to tamper with me in the past, then I intend to take myself home and drink until I pass out. Do give me until tomorrow before going back to 1892 and fucking up my life if you please."

  "Miss Braun, consider this: if I am right, and according to all imperial data I do believe I am, I will put an end to your current suffering." He extended a hand to her. "You must trust me."

  "Did that already." Eliza took his hand firmly and shook it once. "My turn to play God."

  Her other hand slapped around his wrist. Hard. Hard enough to make the director wince. When he looked down at Eliza’s hand tightening around his, his gaze returned to hers. She saw it in his face. He was on to her.

  Sound tried to wrench himself free but Eliza kept her firm grip. He was a big man, and she was afraid the drug wouldn’t take hold quick enough. The director attempted to rise from his chair, but he only made it a few inches before he slumped back in his chair. Maybe the three fingers' worth of scotch was helping matters along, or perhaps her tranquilizer had proven more effective than she could have asked for. He slurred out Shillingsworth’s name, but the mumble would be barely noticeable through the door. He then started to lean back, lifting Eliza up and dragging her across the desk.

  "Stop-stop-stop-stop!" she pleaded as she continued to slip forward, her knees threatening to reach the desk’s edge.

  The chair let out a sudden twang, and Doctor Sound stopped moving back. There was a good chance from the sound of that spring that she’d ruined his fine chair. Eliza looked down and with some relief found the chair had wheels.

  "Thank you, Lord," she whispered in a quick prayer. Her eyes went to the door leading to Event Control. "That will make this next part much easier."

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  In Which Our Colonial Pepperpot Gets in the Last Word

  Her fingers pressed into the Old Man’s flesh again. His pulse was steady. A metallic bitterness welled in her mouth. If she had punched him hard in his nose, as she had wanted to, she would have earned the same result, and the bruise on his face would have been delightfully satisfactory. However, Eliza had to be sensible; that would compel him to explain to associates at Whiterock what had happened. He did possess the skills to spin some sort of yarn about walking into a door or something even more fanciful. He was HG Wells, after all, and exceedingly good at creating fantastic stories. The bumbling awkwardness he put on for people would also make whatever story to explain his broken nose all the more believable. He possessed an eccentric charm—but such as they were they no longer had a hold on her.

  Eliza regretted making the promise not to harm him, especially considering his orders and the months that followed; long months of isolation, plans within plans, and copious amounts of drinking. Even for Eliza, mourning had proven a test of her stamina.

  Looking down at the mug of coffee in her hands, she rolled it back and forth while considering her circumstances. This could go either way, but she had to see it to the end—but would it be worth it? Would he honour her demands, or would he attempt to undo everything?

  Sobriety was working its way over her, but Eliza did not care for coffee. Unlike tea it made her jittery.

  A groan. Barely audible, but there it was. His jowls trembled and his lips smacked against one another. He was thirsty. That was a side-effect of the tranquilizer.

  Setting down the near-empty mug of coffee she poured him a glass of fresh water. Sound’s eyes fluttered before flicking open. He let out a long, quiet breath, looked around, until his gaze rested on her. Even with the offered drink in her hand, his expression did not soften.

  "You’re not going to be able to reprimand me as your throat is probably dryer than an Outback desert in the summer." Eliza offered him the water once again. "Drink up, Old Man."

  The skin around Sound’s eyes tightened at the casual sentiment, his gaze never breaking as he took the offered drink. He took a few slurps, trying to steady the glass with each gulp.

  When he drank it all, he pulled himself up from the chair, gripping the glass.

  "Would you like more water?"

  From the deep breath he took, Sound threatened to suck in all the air from Event Control. When Sound finally exhaled, his eyes aflame, he answered, "I believe you have done quite enough for one day, Miss Braun." Hearing the croak of his own voice, he held out the empty glass to her.

  Eliza took it and went to the end of the terminal’s long desk. The pitcher, left by one of the many polished silver automatons that occupied this place, was still cool to the touch. Was this awkward silence supposed to be where she apologised? Or was it supposed to be now as she poured? Once the water line reached close to the rim, Eliza set down the pitcher back on the desk, then walked over to Sound.

  "I used enough of sleep potion to take down a wild boar or three," she said, placing the glass into his waiting hand. "You might be a bit groggy."

  "So kind of you to care," Sound bit in reply just before taking a few more generous gulps of water.

  "If I truly didn’t, you wouldn’t be here right now, in this place." Eliza motioned behind Sound. "With that."

  Sound followed her gesture and gasped at the sight of his clockwork chrono-model. It remained frozen, just as it had been before the exchange. Not a single gear, cog, or strut had moved since the man she loved had toppled into the darkness. Even whilst the Old Man slumbered in his chair, the tracker remained silent and still.

  "Are you trying to drive home a point?" he asked, getting to his feet and walking over to the time-tracking device.

  "I’m trying to hold your attention.”

  Sound braced his rotund frame against the edge of the table, and his head sank lower, almost disappearing from view over his hunched shoulders. "As I told you in my office, I did everything I could. I returned again and again to this crossroad—to this one point—and according to my calculations and deductions, the chrono-model should be moving. Wellington’s death should have repaired the blackout. I can’t say why it didn’t."

  "Yes, it is quite a mystery," the voice spoke from behind Eliza. Emerging from the far end of Event Control’s long, curved desk and the long bank of monitors was Sound’s key in repairing his timeline and avoiding the bl
ackout he had warned them all was coming. Wellington Thornhill Books stopped next to Eliza. “Perhaps we should consider another option then?”

  Eliza smiled at the pure shock on Sound’s face. "I saw you fall to your death," he choked out.

  "Correction, you did see me fall—but not to my death."

  "Good God!" he squawked, his face going a peculiar shade of puce.

  "Not quite, Mr Wells," Wellington returned. "Nor divine intervention. More like advancements in quantum engineering."

  The Director appeared convinced he was talking to a ghost, but on hearing those words, he deduced, "Professor Falcon?"

  "After I resigned myself to my fate, Eliza did what she does best—she rescued me just like she did in Antarctica the first time." Raising her hand up he pressed his warm lips to her knuckles. A tremor of desire ran through her even as he continued. "Professor Falcon got hold of my measurements and created for me the last suit I would ever wear,” he said, gesturing to the fine fashion he still had on. “I must admit, it is quite the fashion.

  “This rescue suit is being designed for Navy officers and sailors in combat situations. Sewn into the waistcoat is a series of—now what did Henrietta call those again?—pressure-relief systems. On detecting a dramatic change in ‘personal velocity’ the suit inflates and then cocoons its occupant, protecting them from impact with the water.” He cleared his throat and added, "Granted, these rescue suits hadn't been tested at such a height, but I chose to take that risk in light of the alternative."

  "You. Were. Shot. Twice." Sound insisted. "I saw the footage recorded from Axelrod’s Starlight Goggles. Your chest exploded."

  Eliza shrugged. "That was a bit of theatrics built into the suit. Falcon’s own touch. She is quite the patron of the arts, it would seem."

  Sound shook his head. "No, even with Starlights, no man could make that shot. In the dark. At that distance."

  "You are so right, Doctor Sound," she agreed. "So I had my South Pacific big brother call in someone that could do it."

  The director stared at her for a moment, and then his jaw dropped. "Ryfka Górski."

  "Bruce and I came to an arrangement. Wellington took a dose of Axelrod and Blackwell’s tracking isotope, which gave Ryfka a bright target."

  Sound turned back to Wellington. "He slapped you in the chest. Hard."

  "Ryfka would not miss." Wellington waggled his eyebrows. "I was quite relieved about that, I can assure you."

  Eliza had often been on the receiving end of Sound’s ire, but this time it was Wellington who received the Director’s disdain. "Books, I am shocked. Shocked, I say! That you would do something so reckless!"

  "Really?" Wellington asked, his eyebrow arching. "This coming from the man who has been, by his own admission, attempting to single-handedly manipulate time."

  "Repair a timeline."

  "A matter of perspective, Herbert," Wellington said with a shrug, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. "The rebel rising against an empire does not consider themselves a terrorist, now do they?"

  Eliza smiled. This rather brash attitude suited him.

  "You haven’t even the foggiest of what you are doing by staging such a charade. With this ridiculous ballyhoo of yours, I have lost complete control of this timeline. Either the paradox cannot correct itself or we have locked the past, present, and future into a fate that we cannot avoid."

  "Oh dear," Wellington said, with not a hint of concern, "whatever shall we do?"

  Sound took a step back. This was not what he and Eliza had rehearsed. Even this sounded callous coming from him.

  Or perhaps, like herself, he had reached his fill of the Ministry Director and Renaissance man.

  "Your irresponsibility, your lack of trust, and your selfishness may have doomed us all!" Sound raged. He pointed to the chrono-model, but his gaze remained locked with Wellington’s. "Because of you, we may still have Operation: Ragnarök to contend with. Countless lives and cultures lost."

  "It pains me to think that I have thrown a rather nasty spanner into your grand plan, but as they say—tempus fugit."

  "You are willing to toss the world into an apocalypse, all on account of your self-preservation?" Sound’s arm lowered back to his side. He looked the archivist from the soles of his shoes to the top of his head. "Anything else clever to say for yourself, Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire?"

  "Actually, Doctor Sound... Herbert... whatever moniker you answer to... I do have one more thing to say." Wellington straightened up, tugging his waistcoat as he did so. "I quit."

  Eliza jumped as a wild clickity-clackity-tick-tick-tick shattered the tension between archivist and director. The chrono-model had not only come back to life, it was angrily pinging and dinging as gears spun far faster than she had ever seen before. Its syncopated beats suggested it was determined to calculate whatever it had failed to do when it had been silent.

  "What the—" Sound’s eyes darted from one end of the device to another. Fumbling for something inside his coat, he produced his small journal. His eyes narrowed on several of the machinations as he flipped frantically through pages in the tiny book. His gaze jumped from notebook to the device. "No-no-no, this is not how it is supposed to work. I don’t understand."

  "Herbert, if you please," Wellington said, placing a hand on his own chest. "You claim that Eliza and I are at the root of this mysterious discrepancy in the timeline. Yet in all your attempts to repair whatever went wrong, you never did ask me what I wanted.

  "While I remained detained here, I had time to reflect and study. The Staff here have been incredibly accommodating. I brushed up on some poetry, and there is a particular verse from Henley that struck me. Seems quite appropriate at present:

  It matters not how strait the gate,

  How charged with punishments the scroll,

  I am the master of my fate:

  I am the captain of my soul.

  "I want out of this spy life. I want to live out my days far from you, from the unexplained, and from the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences." Wellington took a place next to Eliza, looking at her with a love that thrilled her to the core. He took her hand, turned back to Sound, and smiled. "I want out."

  "As do I," Eliza stated, surprised still that those words were in her mouth. "While I had planned on something more colourful in the ways of a resignation, Welly here convinced me to take a higher road."

  "Just like that?" asked Sound. "You resign and move along with a life free of espionage and investigation?"

  "Well," Eliza began, "not just like that. We will need new identities, case records sealed—"

  "And archived properly," Wellington added.

  "Of course, darling. Then, once our previous identities and exploits are catalogued and classified, we go home."

  Sound’s eyebrows raised. "Home? Which would be...?"

  Eliza pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a long, slow breath. "Are we certain this is the same man who will write astounding classics of literature?"

  "That is what Event Control claims, but that does not necessarily mean he is particularly quick."

  "Evidently."

  Doctor Sound’s deepening blush receded as he realised what home meant to Eliza. "You cannot be serious."

  "Quite, I know travel arrangements will be somewhat costly, but I have no doubt you can make certain our accommodations are the finest that White Star can provide. In fact, I am counting on it."

  "Agent Braun, may I remind you, that the conditions of your expulsion from New Zealand were quite clear."

  "Very clear. However, you are a persuasive sort. I’m sure you can resolve this delicate matter with great aplomb."

  Sound opened his mouth, but no words came out. Not straight away. It was so strange to see her director at such a loss. Usually it was her that struggled with returns and retorts against him.

  He found his voice. "Exactly how do you expect me to have your banishment lifted?"

  Eliza gave Wellington’s hand a light squeeze
before approaching Sound. She extended her arms wide as she said, "You, Herbert George Wells, are standing in the middle of an incredible device that can take you anywhere in time and space." She rested her hands on her hips. "I am sure you can find some kind of leverage against Prime Minister Seddon. You know the kind I mean."

  The worn notebook closed with a soft snap before disappearing back into his coat pocket. Sound glanced at Wellington before stepping away from Eliza and strolling over to the main interface of Event Control. The strange screens surrounding where he would sit and enter in destinations of the past and the future glowed against the stark white, featureless furniture surrounding them. Her nose crinkled a bit. If this is the look of the future, I will stay here in the 19th century, thank you very much.

  Doctor Sound adjusted his cravat "So because my chrono-model is working you expect me to go along with your plan?"

  "That," Wellington said, "and the contingency plan in case something were to go... awry."

  "Contingency plan?"

  Eliza and Wellington shared a quick look. She nodded, and Wellington continued. "As Eliza pointed out, you have access to science and resources well beyond our comprehension, but you are only human. Complete with all the frailties that come with it. Your propensity for being manipulative, for instance. So, to make certain you did not do anything daring to undo our plan, I have been working with your Event Control automatons to understand how your Archives work here."

  "You've been... working... with the Staff?" Sound stammered.

  "As I said before, the Staff here have been incredibly accommodating." Wellington paused, then held up a single finger, "You are wondering how I got so close with your Staff here. Well, when we realised I would need a safe, secure place to lie low after my death, where better than here, between time and space itself?" He walked over to the balcony overlooking the rows of humming black cubes underneath them. "You see, I regarded your Event Control as an advanced archival system, but it is much more, isn’t it? This is a very intricate, powerful communications device, all powered by your incredible time machine. After all, you were keeping constant connections with it from the airlock you established in the London Office. As I was here for some time, I turned to the only companions offered here, and what a helpful lot they were." He turned back to Sound and Eliza, and Eliza had to stifle a laugh at the wicked smile Wellington wore. "With the Staff’s assistance, I created what they refer to as a sub-routine. Any significant manipulation of our current timeline will trigger Event Control to notify the outside world of its existence."