series 01 04 Abattoir in the Aether

by L. Joseph Shosty

  “Know much about the Navy, do you, sir?”

  “Suffice it to say, I’ve become well-acquainted with them as of late, and I am in the employ of the British Government. I also know my rights as a Crown citizen, and it doesn’t involve my being arrested without knowing the nature of my crimes.”

  “I’ve just explained them to you.”

  Nathanial laughed. “And you truly expect me to believe such rubbish?”

  “It matters very little to me what you believe, sir. I can detain you by right of law and by right of arms, and I am doing so with both in mind.”

  A nervous tremor passed through the armed men. Nathanial took their measure. One held his weapon incorrectly. Another’s hands shook. These were not soldiers. Some of these men had never so much as held a gun before in their lives. He could not say what this was about, but Nathanial knew what it was not. If he did not acquiesce, one of these nervous men might get even more so, and the consequences could become catastrophic. The men had taken him in front of the viewport, after all. Any stray gunfire would spell the deaths of every man on board.

  “Let me get my books, then.”

  The small man shook his head. “Your flyer will be towed and your belongings left on board. They will be sent with you back to Earth when you are retrieved by the proper authorities.”

  A shot rang out, and Nathanial’s blood ran cold. The men were frightened, now, making him tense. When a bullet from an errant gun did not pierce his chest, he let out a long, protracted sigh. Two men dragged a furious Annabelle onto the bridge. The Irishman followed, chuckling at her antics.

  “Found her easily enough,” he said. “Really, if you’re planning to hide from us, stay out of sight of our telescope.”

  2.

  The cutters were small ships, smaller even than Esmeralda, equipped for crews of five, though as many as ten or even twenty could be housed comfortably for short journeys. Such flyers were not long-range vessels, which left Nathanial wondering where they were headed. Unless he missed his guess, they were deep in the aether, with no planets for days or even weeks. A larger ship, perhaps, like Sovereign, could be patrolling the aether, yet, as he’d noted earlier, these men were not Royal Navy. And what was this foolish business about restricted space?

  A storeroom was cleared and turned into a makeshift prison cell, with two armed guards posted outside. Nathanial sat on the floor, scratching an itch on the back of his head. Annabelle paced the tiny bit of floor available to her. She was dressed much the same as she had been when Nathanial had last seen her, but he knew from experience that she had her derringer and knife secreted in places beneath her skirts that would be improper for a man to search. The gunshot he had heard earlier had come from one of the men sent to fetch her. She had leapt on his back suddenly, and the man had squeezed off a shot before the others, the big Irishman included, had wrestled her to the ground.

  Now she looked more like a caged animal. Gone was the generosity and industry he had witnessed in their journey from Mercury. Truly, the old Annabelle had returned, and, he had to confess, much of his old vigour was returning as well. The veil of doom was lifting from his shoulders just as the twin stones of anxiety and boredom were crashing down on her, as they often did when she had no external incidences to engage her.

  “Where do you think they’re taking us?” she asked for the eighth time.

  “We won’t know until we get there,” he said.

  Annabelle clearly did not like this response. “What if they decide to kill us?”

  “They could have done that already. They have a specific destination in mind, and I, for one, am curious to see what it may be.”

  “Even under arrest?”

  Nathanial shrugged. Unless they had fallen into the hands of the Germans or the Russians, he was certain he could talk his way out of their predicament. His importance to the interplanetary efforts would be currency enough to buy his and Annabelle’s freedom, regardless of what phantom law they might have inadvertently broken. If they had broken any at all. Briefly, he wondered if perhaps groups independent of sovereign nations had gotten their hands on liftwood supplies or found a way to build an aether propeller, but he quickly discarded the line of thought. The notion of it made him want to laugh. Aether pirates! Sounded like some fanciful bit of dribble for the penny dreadfuls.

  His musings were interrupted by a sudden shaking of the hull. At first it was merely a vibration, but before he could think two thoughts in a row the vibration had become a rumble. Annabelle lost her footing, catching herself on the storeroom wall. Shouts from the crew rang out. Nathanial could hear them scrambling to keep the cutter on course.

  “What’s going on?” Annabelle shouted above the din.

  “Aether vortex!” he replied. “A very big one, from the feel of it!”

  In his time on HMS Sovereign he had experienced just such an anomaly, where the aether streams of Earth and Venus had met and reacted violently. The resultant “storm” could have destroyed Sovereign had it not been for his improvements to the design of the aether propeller governor. He recalled being afraid then, even though the chaps under Folkard had been particularly adept at navigating its outer edge. Still, the buffering the ship had received was nothing compared to what he was feeling now. Part of that had to do with the overall size of the ship. Sovereign had carried two cutters roughly the same size as this one in her belly, but that was only a portion of his concern. This vortex was definitely larger, and by turns more violent.

  The roaring became a screeching. Annabelle clapped hands over her ears and screamed, though the noise she made was drowned. Visions filled Nathanial’s head of the cutter ripping apart and their bodies floating free with the debris. He closed his eyes and drew his knees to his chest, where he sat with his head covered by his arms. His insides felt gelatinous, sloshing about inside his abdomen.

  Moments later, the screeching subsided, reduced to a roar, and so forth until all was silent again.

  “My God!” Annabelle whispered. She was shaking.

  The door opened a moment later, and the Irishman stuck his head inside. “Everyone here all right? No one shaken apart, or the like?” He was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Hale and hearty,” Nathanial said. “Did your pilot try to fly us through an aether vortex?”

  The Irishman chuckled. “Not a’tall, not a’tall. A beauty as big as she, we would have been torn apart. No, we passed a good four hundred statute miles from its horizon, at the least. Hell of a racket, though, even at that distance, wasn’t it?”

  Nathanial’s jaw fell open. “Four hundred?”

  “At the least. You should see her. She’s enormous.”

  “I should like to, if I could.”

  “You might, at that, once we get where we’re going.”

  “And where would that be?”

  The Irishman winked. “Ah, now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

  3.

  What seemed like hours passed. Conversation reached a lull, and Nathanial nodded off. When he woke he became aware of a new vibration in the cutter’s hull. Annabelle was wide-eyed and staring at him for confirmation. Something buffered the cutter to his left, and then shortly to his right. A lurching sensation gripped his stomach.

  “We’re settling into dock,” he told her. “Don’t worry. Unless these men are incompetent, our worries are over.”

  Or just beginning, he thought.

  4.

  The Cutter settled, and the slight sense of movement one felt when a ship was traversing the aether vanished. A curious, yet all too familiar feeling replaced it: gravity. Nathaniel felt his limbs grow heavy again for the first time in weeks. He cocked an eyebrow at Annabelle, who began casting her gaze around the hold as if she was seeing it for the first time.

  Before Nathanial could wrap his head around this newest revelation, the Irishman reappeared at their door, the two armed guards were with him. They had no brig, he said, and so Nathanial and Annabelle would be left
here, under guard, until something more permanent could be arranged. Food and water would be provided, and trips to the cutter’s toilet would come every two hours, whether they were needed or not. Nathanial tried to engage the man in discussion, but the Irishman was having none of it.

  “Save your breath,” he said. “You’ve still got the Juggernaut to talk to. Anything you want to say can be said to him. In the meantime, I suggest you get yourself nice and comfortable, and don’t entertain any thoughts of escape. A guard will be posted outside the ship.”

  The door closed. Annabelle waited a beat or two before turning to Nathanial. “The Juggernaut?” she asked.

  “I’m familiar with the name,” Nathanial replied, but he did not like what he knew. “Doctor Henry van den Bosch. He’s a Dutchman who makes his home in Austria. He works for King Franz Joseph, but he presses nations all over Europe to advance the sciences. ‘Coerce’ may be a more appropriate word. ‘Bludgeon’ would be another. His tactics are said to border on the grotesque, or so goes the rumours. Were it not for his tireless ambition to see science flourish in the coming century, he would have likely been done away with long ago.”

  Annabelle nodded. “If he’s anything like Uncle Cyrus, I think I can weather his outbursts.”

  “I daresay he’s something of an order or two of magnitude worse than your uncle. Many reputations have been destroyed because certain persons were unlucky enough to cross the Juggernaut.”

  “Is he really so bad as all that?”

  Nathanial shrugged. “I suppose we’re about to find out. The important question, at least to me, is what is he doing out here, in the aether?”

  “It must be a project of some kind.”

  “Yes, but what project?” Nathanial raised his hands to demonstrate his helplessness. “I’m afraid I’m currently at a loss.”

  Chapter Three

  “The Juggernaut”

  1.

  Given the definite schedule the Irishman laid out, Nathanial was able to accurately judge the time they spent incarcerated in the ship’s hold. Every two hours they were taken to the toilet. Even sleep was interrupted. Three times Nathanial was awakened with a polished black boot nudging the side of his head until he stirred. The guards never spoke, even when Annabelle protested (which was often), but they were never impertinent. Nevertheless, Annabelle took the treatment as the worst sort of torture. Nathanial’s every attempt to divert her attentions came to naught.

  When awake Annabelle questioned Nathanial further about van den Bosch, but he had few answers for her. No, he was sure the Juggernaut and Cyrus Grant had never met, and no, he did not know van den Bosch’s field of study. He could not say where the man had been educated, though he remembered a slip of a rumour that he’d been at Oxford at some point. Nathanial surmised that if what their captors had said was true, and that Esmeralda had entered restricted space in accordance with British law, that meant Her Majesty was no doubt in some sort of deal with the Austrians, if van den Bosch was involved. An Austrian who had lived for a time in Britain would be the perfect man to head such a project, whatever that project may be.

  Between sixteen and eighteen hours after their arrival, the small man with the foreign accent returned. He identified himself as Mister Joram Franziskus Hague, personal aide to Doctor Henry van den Bosch. Before Nathanial or Annabelle could introduce themselves, Mister Hague produced Nathanial’s journal and asked him if he was its author. Nathanial was annoyed at this invasion of his privacy, yet said nothing. He could sense a change for the better in Mister Hague’s attitude toward him and would not risk a reversal of fortunes, not if this meant a chance for release.

  “I should apologise for the dismal way you’ve been treated, Mister Stone,” Mister Hague said.

  “Professor Stone,” Annabelle corrected.

  Mister Hague gave her a brief glance, and then smiled at Nathanial. “Yes, you’ve drawn quite an amusing character in your benefactor, Director White.” He winked as if to say “your secret is safe with me”.

  Another dart of annoyance hit Nathanial, but he shrugged it off. “What can I do for your employer, Mister Hague?”

  “That should be best explained by the man himself. If you would kindly come with me, Doctor van den Bosch is waiting for you in his study.”

  Nathanial rose to his feet and dusted off his trousers, a curious gesture considering he was filthy. Mister Hague gestured him to the door, and Nathanial complied.

  “So what am I to do, in the meantime?” Annabelle asked.

  Mister Hague shook his head. “I’m sorry, miss, but the doctor specifically asked for an audience with Mister Stone alone. I will have someone come deliver you books to read, if you like.”

  “I could do with something to eat.”

  “Of course, miss. We’re in between meals in the galley at the moment, but I can send down a steward with bread and cheese.”

  Annabelle nodded. “That’ll do. I’m famished.”

  “I’m sure, miss. Again, please excuse our stern treatment of you.”

  A guard outside the storage closet slid the door closed. Mister Hague led Nathanial the short distance to the bridge and down the gangplank to the outside. Nathanial was anxious to get a glimpse of his surroundings, but before he could duck down to have a look, the second guard appeared carrying a sack.

  “Is this really necessary?” Nathanial asked.

  “Secrecy must be maintained,” Hague said, motioning for the guard to continue. The sack was thrown over Nathanial’s head and tied loosely about his neck.

  It was in this way that he was led across the docking bay, and into a steam-powered lift, which lurched upwards with a loud hiss, the hot, pressurised air pushing them upwards. Hague said little during their ride, and Nathanial was unsure if a guard accompanied them or not.

  The lift door opened, and Nathanial was led out into what sounded like a bustling thoroughfare. A cacophony of human voices and the loud clanging and thrum of workers assaulted him. The docking bay had been well-lit, and the sack was cut of thin, bright cloth that let him sense changes in lighting. Here, amongst the bustle and buffering of men occasionally bumping into him as Hague led him through the thoroughfare, Nathanial could see nothing at all. The area was dimly lit, not completely dark, but little light could be had. The noise was so loud and so boisterous that he could make out none of what was being said, and if Mister Hague were speaking to him, he was sure the little man’s quiet voice would be drowned out.

  Once, he did hear something directed at him, when a man several feet to his left yelled, “’Ey! Would you get a load of the bludger with the sack over ’is ’ead!” Several men roared with laughter.

  2.

  The crush of bodies soon lessened, and the noise died to a far off rumble. Hague led Nathanial through a dizzying series of twists and turns until they arrived at what Nathanial could only assume was their destination. The little man knocked three times, waited a moment, and then spoke something in Austrian to whoever opened the door. Nathanial and Hague were admitted into a room. The door was closed behind them, and the sack was removed from Nathanial’s head.

  He was in a finely appointed and spacious study of some kind. Bookshelves were stocked with excellent volumes. A globe, not of Earth but of Venus, was nearby with maps of the Hackley Expedition detailing the interior continents and waterways. The floor was fine oak, properly shellacked, and three-quarters of the way covered in Oriental rugs. A large desk lay ahead of him, studded with stacked reports and various trivialities well-travelled men often used as mementos for their adventures. An eye floated in a jar whose cap was scribbled with Egyptian hieroglyphics. A cobra, well seen to by a taxidermist, was coiled and ready to strike, its hood open and its mouth revealing its deadly fangs. A small, jade Buddha sat next to it, laughing at the snake’s antics. Behind the desk sturdy, wine-coloured curtains hid what was likely a fabulous panorama of star lights. Two overstuffed chairs sat on this side of the desk.

  “Please, make yourse
lf comfortable,” said Hague.

  Whoever had let them in had gone. It was just Hague and himself. For a moment Nathanial wondered if some fabulous trick had not been played on him, and that Hague had been, in fact, van den Bosch all along. That notion disintegrated when the door behind him slid open, and horror entered the study.

  Nathanial could only assume it was a man, though its height and bulk surely made it one of the most uncommon sort. He was cloaked in dark green, with a matching wide-brimmed hat pulled over his eyes to keep even the room’s sparse candlelight at bay. Thick, imposing boots covered feet large enough to stomp a bear in half. The hands, seen clearly from the cloak’s sleeves, were wrapped in bandages greying with wear, as was the chest and face of the man who now stood before them.

  Nathanial scrambled to his feet. The nightmare man stomped into the room, the panel door sliding into place behind him as if it had a life of its own, and he seated himself behind the desk without so much as a word. Nathanial was confused as to whether he should sit or stand, but upon seeing Hague settle into the chair beside him, decided to follow suit.

  The nightmare man spoke, and his voice was deep, echoing through the study like a controlled detonation. “Mister Nathanial Stone,” he said. Something in the violence of the voice, as if it had to crash the ramparts of the man’s face to leave his lips, was too much when taken with the enormous, ruined body. Nathanial was instantly frightened of the man.

  “Doctor van den Bosch, I presume,” he said with a stammer.

  “Mmmm. Excuse the gloom. I find electric light no longer agrees with me, and so I tend to keep to the darker parts of this place to avoid the discomfort.”

  “I rather like the ambience, actually. One might think I was back on Earth, if the bay window behind you didn’t peer directly into the aether.”

  “Indeed. I must say, Mister Stone, I was rather surprised to find you out here. May I ask what you were doing in a crippled flyer with the niece of Cyrus Grant in tow?”