by Chris Paton
Contents
Title Page
Metal Emissary Insert
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Cast of Characters
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the Same Author
Metal Emissary
A HANOVER & SINGH ADVENTURE
By Chris Paton
Copyright © 2015 by Chris Paton
Cover Art by Nicole Cardiff
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events or organisations is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.
www.chrispaton.dk
Prologue
Wallendorf Industrial Factory
Frankfurt, the German Confederation
December, 1850
Luther Wallendorf shuffled the toe of his leather brogue into the imprint of a large, cloven foot depressed into the cobblestones outside the green doors of his factory. He leaned on his silver-capped cane as the footprint, several inches deep, swallowed his shoe and tipped the grey-haired man off balance. Wallendorf’s hat rolled off his head and onto the ground. With a firm grip of Wallendorf’s elbow Hans Schleiermacher helped the older man out of the hole and back onto the cobblestones. Schleiermacher bent down to retrieve his employer’s black bowler hat. Brushing the slush from the brim with his sleeve, he handed it to him.
“Thank you, Hans. I think I can manage now,” Wallendorf placed his hat on his head and tapped his cane on the ground. He smiled at his aide. “To think we built such a monster.”
“Yes, Herr Direktor,” Schleiermacher clasped his hands behind his back. “Quite an achievement.”
“But will it work, Hans? Will it do the job?” Wallendorf waved his cane at the tall double doors of the factory. “Let us go inside. It will not do to keep the President waiting.” Wallendorf hummed a short refrain, the snowy whiskers of his thick beard twitching as he breathed. Schleiermacher walked up to the doors and pulled the chain of a steam whistle mounted to the right of the doors with large brass bolts screwed into the rough red brick walls of the factory. Gears clicked and pulleys rasped as the doors folded and collapsed like a Chinese fan, winding into the eaves of the tall gables. Wallendorf stopped humming. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath of leather and oil, coal dust and wood shavings. Opening them, Wallendorf smiled and nodded at Schleiermacher to enter. Will I ever tire of this, he wondered. Wallendorf’s cane clicked on the cobblestones as he followed his aide inside the factory.
The Direktor leaned on his cane as Schleiermacher closed the doors. He winked at Schleiermacher as the doors clicked and whirred behind them. Wallendorf tapped his cane once and set off along the broad aisle between the frames of copper pipes and valves hissing above the workspaces and desks of leather-aproned factory workers and shift managers. Balloon-like electric bulbs buzzed like bulbous glass bees within metal cages hanging from the pipes. The tapping of pipes and the wrenching of metal hammered the warm air blowing down the length of the factory floor from huge fans in the far wall.
“Good morning, Frederik,” Wallendorf tipped his hat as he passed one of the larger workspaces.
“Morning, Herr Direktor,” the shift manager turned away from the tiny hydraulic valve he was examining under a large magnifying glass and picked up a ledger from his desk.
“Not necessary, Frederik. I have a meeting,” Wallendorf pointed toward the far end of the factory floor with the ivory pommel of his cane.
“Very good, Herr Direktor,” the shift manager waved.
The factory floor opened up into a long, broad rectangle of wooden ladders and metal scaffolds caging the skeletons of monstrous iron beasts. Factory workers and supervisors armed with clipboards and wrenches scurried about the four-legged metal mammoths, swinging from the giant ribs on hawser-line swing seats. Wallendorf stopped and squinted into the distance. “Where are the emissaries, Hans?”
Schleiermacher leaned closer to Wallendorf’s ear. “Over there, behind the mammoth walkers, Herr Direktor,” he stretched his right arm past Wallendorf’s shoulder and pointed with a curved palm. “On the right.”
“When were they moved?” Wallendorf began walking toward the large bay.
“Wednesday, Herr Direktor, on your recommendation following word that the President wished to visit the factory. You said they would be better placed closer to your office.”
“Yes,” Wallendorf chuckled. He stopped and smoothed the lapels of his winter coat. “Do you know, I have always wanted them where I could see them, but I could never convince my son to move them.”
“Herr Wallendorf is very particular about space, Herr Direktor.”
“Yes, Hans,” Wallendorf lifted his eyebrows and smiled. “But we got our way in the end, didn’t we?”
“Yes, Herr Direktor,” Schleiermacher gestured toward the work bay to the right of the factory floor. “If you will permit me, we are running a little late.”
“Of course,” Wallendorf tapped his cane on the smooth stone floor and resumed walking. “We must not keep the President waiting.”
In the work bay assigned to the Wallendorf emissaries, a group of three tall men wearing long, dark winter coats and tall hats chatted together. Standing to one side, a shorter, younger man wearing smooth grey trousers and a maroon waistcoat embroidered with dark cotton stripes slipped his watch inside his pocket. He stepped forward to receive Wallendorf as he approached.
“Ludvig,” Wallendorf greeted his son with an embrace. “I see the President has arrived already.” Wallendorf ignored his son’s frown and stepped around him to greet the tallest of the three men. “Herr President,” Wallendorf extended his right hand.
“Herr Direktor,” President Franz Baum shook Wallendorf’s hand. “You know Herr Richter from the Ministry of Finance and Herr Bremen? I forget to which department, Herr Bremen is attached.”
“The Ministry of Foreign Service,” Bremen tipped his hat.
“Yes, of course.” Lifting his head to look them in the eyes, Wallendorf shook hands with the two men. “I trust my son, Ludvig, has shown you around the factory?”
“All but the emissaries, Herr Direktor,” Richter smiled.
“I left them for you, father,” Ludvig joined the men. He stood just behind and a little to the left of Wallendorf. “I know how much they mean to you.”
“Yes,” Wallendorf’s grey eyes twinkled. “Come, let me introduce you.” Tapping his cane, Wallendorf walked toward three scaffolds draped with heavy canvas tarpaulins. He stopped in front of the first and waited. Walking past Wallendorf Schleiermacher pulled at a corner of the canvas and peered inside. He let the canvas fall and turned to the men waiting beside Wallendorf.
“They will be ready in just a moment, gentlemen,” Schleiermacher bowed his head.
“All good things are worth waiting for,” Wallendorf chuckled. “How is the lovely Frau Baum, Herr President?”
“She is well, thank you,” the President nodded to Wallendorf. “She has expressed a keen interest in the emissaries, as has Herr Richter and his ministry.”
“We have noticed a significant increase in costs, something not entirely expected,” Richter coughed. “I wo
nder if you would care to comment, Herr Direktor?”
“If I may, father?” Ludvig stepped forward. “As you will soon see, the emissaries are perhaps one of the greatest and most intricate feats of engineering yet undertaken by Wallendorf Industries.” Ludvig paused. “More so than the mammoth walkers upon which Wallendorf has built its reputation as the confederation’s greatest industrial giant.”
“Any other father might try curbing such enthusiasm in front of such esteemed guests,” Wallendorf smiled. “Fortunately, I am not any other father.” The President laughed. “Please continue, Ludvig.”
“Yes father,” Ludvig nodded. “The original brief for the emissaries required a robust agent capable of autonomous movement and remote control. It seems that your political agents, young men,” Ludvig glanced at Bremen, “were subject to the dangers of hostile tribes in...”
“I think we can agree not to get into specifics,” Bremen waved his hand. He turned to address the President. “My office has worked closely with the Wallendorfs.”
“Continue,” the President tucked his hands inside his coat pockets.
“We tested our first prototypes in,” Ludvig paused at a glance from Bremen, “a suitable country. We have now refined the design and are confident that the new emissary, Mark III, is ready for active service.”
“Considering the expense, I trust that the Mark III is infinitely superior to its predecessors,” Richter raised his eyebrows. “Am I correct?”
“Herr Richter,” Wallendorf tapped his cane. “It will be my pleasure to reassure you that the ministry’s money is being exceedingly well spent.” He glanced at Schleiermacher.
“We are ready now, gentlemen,” Schleiermacher pulled back the canvas and stood to one side. Wallendorf led the men inside the scaffold tent, the silver cap of his cane muffled by the thick leather carpet covering the ground inside the workspace.
“My God,” Richter held his hand over his mouth as he entered the tent. “It is twice my size.”
Workers dressed in green overalls, wearing cotton hoods and protective glass goggles, removed the gangplanks from either side of the emissary allowing the men to walk freely around it. Ludvig stood next to Bremen and the President directly in front of the emissary.
“The cloven feet,” he pointed at the emissary’s massive appendages, four times the size of his own, “are inspired by mountain goats.” He pointed at the legs. “The knees are jointed with thick rubber gaskets, with a thick coating of goose grease to insulate them from the cold. In fact,” he lifted his hand high to point at all the emissary’s joints, “everything is lubricated and greased for the most extreme of environments. Once the emissary is set in motion, nothing can stop it,” Ludvig beamed. “You may remember the hole in the factory wall from the tour?”
“This did that?” the President whistled.
“What about combustion?” Bremen walked to the rear of the emissary. Wrapping his fist around one of the machine’s fingers as he passed, he could not close the gap between his fingers and thumb.
“The new tank,” Ludvig joined Bremen, “has a double furnace.” He pointed at the emissary’s rotund belly. “The globus tank is a much more efficient steam engine. It doubles as a fuel tank. When the tank is full, the emissary has a range of 400 kilometres. Depending upon the terrain, of course.”
“And the controlling mechanism?” Bremen slapped his hand upon the side of the machine. “What range does that have?”
“Again, depending upon the terrain...”
“Imagine it is line of sight.”
“Unlimited,” Ludvig shrugged. “We have yet to fully test it.”
“And when out of sight?” the President stared up at the emissary’s disproportionately small head.
“Once the controller has indicated the course, the emissary continues along it. The controller can adjust the course and turn the emissary around when in range. The antenna on the back boosts the receptivity.”
Wallendorf walked up to the emissary’s massive thighs. He stabbed the tip of his cane at a point level with his eyes. “No musket ball or bullet can penetrate these triple-layered brass plates,” he turned to smile at the Minister of Finance. “Nothing will stop my boys,” he chuckled. “Nothing at all.”
“The Russians,” Bremen turned to address the President, “have yet to gain an audience with either the Shah or even the Amir of any province east of the Oxus. That, gentlemen,” Bremen turned to look at Richter, “is why we have invested so heavily in Wallendorf’s boys, as he calls them.” Bremen smiled. “With the British still on the back foot after Trafalgar, after all these years, we have a chance to gain a foothold in Central Asia. We can take on the bear and threaten the lion for control of India.”
“I admire your enthusiasm, Herr Bremen,” the President turned at the sound of the canvas tarpaulins being heaved to one side. A blaze of red hair trailing strands glowing at the ends smoked into the space between the men and the emissary.
“Why, father?” a young woman pushed past the President and stabbed her fist in the air in front of Wallendorf. The woman’s long thumb poked out of fingerless leather gloves and pointed at the Direktor’s nose. “Why?”
“Romney,” Ludvig reached for his sister’s arm.
“You,” Romney shrugged free of his grip and whirled upon her brother. “Why should all your projects get the green light and oodles of father’s money?”
“It’s not father’s money,” Ludvig nodded at the President and the ministers chuckling beside him. “We are under contract.”
“Contracts? For these?” Romney pointed at the emissary towering above her. “But they are just dumb robots.”
“Romney, dearest,” the muffled tap of Wallendorf’s cane upon the carpet caught Romney’s attention. Folding her hands across the greasy leather tunic buckled over her dirty blouse, Romney took a deep breath. “Hold that thought, my sweet,” Wallendorf dipped his head and stared at his daughter from beneath the rim of his bowler hat. “All Wallendorf projects are important to me. What is this about?”
“Somebody,” Romney jerked her head in the direction of her brother, “diverted funds from my racing rig and cancelled my order for new parts.”
“Father,” Ludvig took a step forward. He gestured at the emissary behind Wallendorf.
“Yes,” Wallendorf beckoned Schleiermacher with a wave of his hand. “I will write you a personal cheque.”
“But father,” Ludvig shook his head.
“I said it was a personal cheque, Ludvig. Schleiermacher will take care of it.”
“A steam rig?” Bremen placed his hand upon the President’s arm as he stepped past him. “To what purpose?”
Romney stared at the minister, her eyes following his fingers as he extinguished a tiny ember glowing in the frazzled ends of her hair. “For racing,” she smudged her cheeks and forehead with the back of her hand. “I am a racing driver – a steamracer.”
“Racing?” Bremen guided Romney to the entrance of the scaffold tent. Schleiermacher opened the flap of canvas as Romney walked past him. Bremen stood inside the entrance and took Romney’s hand. “I have an interest in racing.” He pulled a card from his pocket. “Please, contact my office and let me know when I might call upon you.”
“Well,” Romney took the card Bremen placed in her hand. She opened her mouth to say something more.
“Until next time, Miss Wallendorf,” Bremen waved and let the canvas flap fall as Schleiermacher exited the emissary tent.
“Quite a spirited young thing,” the President smiled at Wallendorf. He tilted his head to look at the stubby exhaust pipes extending from the boiler built into the emissary’s torso. Lowering his head he looked at Wallendorf. “When will they be ready?”
Ludvig and his father shared a smile. Wallendorf chuckled.
“What is so funny?” the President looked from one man to the other. “Bremen?”
Bremen took a slow breath. “Herr President, the first emissary sailed several weeks ago. I
t should be halfway up the Indus by now. It might even be on its way up the Khyber Pass,” Bremen smoothed his palm on the emissary’s gauntlet. “Nothing can stop us this time.”
Chapter 1
The Khyber Pass
Afghanistan
December, 1850
Lieutenant Jamie Hanover had never been further from the sea. The rock and red dust of the entrance to the Khyber Pass were unlike any terrain the twenty-two year old naval officer had previously experienced. The dust hid in the pores of Jamie’s wool greatcoat, filling the pockets on the outside, and lining the secret pockets sewn inside the sleeves and the quilted insulating layer. His boots, the hobnail kind, clacked on the rock beneath his feet, echoing up the pass and toward the strange stick figure guarding a rise at the first bend on the way to Adina Pur. Jamie clacked another three hundred yards along the pass until the figure slowly took the form of a man on a stick.
Jamie stopped, opened his dusty greatcoat and pulled out the leather tube protecting the Severinson telescope Admiral Egmont had given him on his birthday. Upending the tube, Jamie slid the telescope out and slipped the tube back inside the pocket of his cloak. Winding the ripcord around the spindle on top of the telescope, Jamie knelt behind a large, flat boulder protruding from the eastern wall of the pass. He grasped the telescope in the palm of his left hand, pulled the ripcord and smiled at the satisfying hum emanating from the instrument. Four and a half minutes of enhanced ocular vision is what old Egmont had promised him. Jamie lifted the telescope to his eye to find out if the Admiral was right.
The stubby muted-brass instrument tingled within Jamie’s fingers. The buzz around his left eye tickled. Jamie pressed his eye closer, sealing the eyepiece. Sharpening the ocular image with a twist of the bottom ring furthest from his eye, he held his breath as the stick man turned his bloody gaze upon him. Jamie swallowed. Panning vertically, from the rocky base of the pass to the sky, he zoomed in on the thick spruce pole, roughly hewn and streaked in fresh blood. Panning upward, Jamie discovered the man had no legs, just bloody stumps twitching either side of the pole. Nor did the man have any arms. The blood from his limbs made it difficult for Jamie to see the man’s uniform, but he was British. What was left of him. The lightning bugle on his collar put him in the King’s Royal Electric Rifles. The telescope buzzed to a feint tremor and the picture of the man faded from view but not from Jamie’s memory.