“It’s not a ghost, you fool,” Nathanial said. “It is the one man who knows how to fix the stabilisers. Le Boeuf!”
Nathanial turned the bomber over. The man was dead. His face was contorted in its final expression, one of both terror and agonising pain. Nathanial searched, yet he could not find a wound. He tugged open the coverall, and there he found it. On the man’s undershirt, between the fourth and fifth rib, was a small blossom of blood. Death had been administered by a thin object, probably a needle. Poison, then. Death had been nearly instantaneous, probably stopping the heart with a paralytic of some kind.
“A fitting end, I should say,” Provost said.
Nathanial agreed. “Let’s see to Jasperse,” he said.
Chapter Twenty
“Purest Bedlam”
1.
It didn’t take Annabelle long to lose Dolan in the crowd. The scene that greeted them as they fled the quartermaster was purest bedlam. Men were running about, screaming, shouting. An older, balding gent, stood in the centre of a teeming mass, reading a Bible in an outstretched hand. The acrid scent of smoke and burning gases hung in the air.
“The greenhouses!” Annabelle shouted, and Dolan bolted away before she could say more.
A fire brigade of sorts had started at Dolan’s fountain and was stretching around a corner. Where they were headed, Annabelle could only guess. If it was the green houses, as she had surmised, they were located on the uppermost part of the station, in domes above Heaven.
Dolan was gone, but soon Salt appeared at her side. He was sweating profusely, and there was soot staining his coverall. “They’ve struck again!” he cried. “It’s panic for sure, now!”
“We know for sure?” Annabelle asked. “It wasn’t something to do with the vortex?”
Salt shook his head. “The glass of Greenhouse Two has been blown out. We’ve lost all of the atmosphere there, but there’s fire and smoke pouring down out of the ducts. Something is still on fire.”
Men were pouring en masse toward the lifts that would take them down into Hell. Someone nearby was yelling for all hands to abandon ship.
“Has Mister Hague given such an order?” she asked Salt, who shook his head.
“None. We’ll get this under control soon enough, but I had better help stop this madness before it gets someone killed.” He raced off toward the lifts, shouting at the men to stand down.
2.
Annabelle returned to the air duct in the quartermaster. There would never be a better moment, she decided. The bomber had to have a lair, somewhere he could hide if searched for. She wasn’t sure how well she could traverse these passages with an injured arm, but she had to try. And if she happened to run across the bomber himself, she was prepared. She patted her pocket. Her derringer rested there. If the blackguard wanted to use a knife, she thought, she would use a firearm.
She grabbed the pry-bar she had used earlier and pulled the grate from the wall. It fell to the floor with a clank.
In a nearby crate she found a bulls-eye lantern, packed in straw. She pulled it free, cleaned it off, and filled it with oil. A box of lucifers was on Griggs’ desk, near the exit. Like many of the men, he smoked an illicit pipe of tobacco when no one was around, something clearly against station clean air regulations. She’d smelled the sweet scent when she’d arrived to work earlier.
Back at the air duct, she set the lantern inside and pushed it forward. She knelt and crawled back inside, same as before. She slid forward until she was near the lantern, used her bandaged arm to nudge it forward, and followed it. It would be slow going, but she would eventually find her way. She paused a moment and removed her father’s watch from a pocket by her breast. Barely visible in the gloom, she nevertheless felt the comfort in having it with her. She wound it tight and gave it a gentle kiss.
“You’re always with me, Father, no matter what,” she whispered.
The words were like a proof against the dark, just as it always had been. She replaced the watch in her pocket and started forward, feeling like nothing could stop her.
Chapter Twenty-One
“A Shadow’s Lair”
1.
Who would have thought that there would be a room?
Wandering aimlessly through the air ducts for an hour or more, Annabelle had been surprised when the narrow tunnel opened into a larger room, a sort of central access chamber. From this room were five shafts―four horizontally deployed, one vertical―that led to other parts of the station. Where they went, she wasn’t sure. More important, though, were not the shafts themselves, but the room into which they fed.
Piled wherever the meagre space would allow was what Annabelle could only assume were the missing ten crates of goods. Cans of American corn, carrots, sugar beets, peas, beans, and other varieties of fruits and vegetables were there to be had. Dried beef as well, tins of biscuits, coffee, and jugs of potable water were stacked haphazardly in corners, stuffed into the shafts, or merely strewn about the room as if an angry child had thrown a tantrum here. On the floor were three sleeping pallets piled with soiled coveralls and socks. Several clean pairs were folded neatly and sitting atop a mouldering block of cheese about the size of Annabelle’s torso, which had chunks of it cut away by knives.
By one of the pallets were the makings of another bomb, half-finished, with a small tool chest nearby left open. Annabelle inspected the bomb further and found two small vials in a wooden box, packed with cotton. Nitro-glycerine. Annabelle did not touch the box nor attempt to pull the vials from it. She was amazed, in fact, that they had managed to bring the compound from Earth, given the jostling that occurred leaving a planetary atmosphere.
This discovery couldn’t be more pleasing, she decided. She had found their lair, and so soon. They! It had turned out not to be a single man, but apparently a conspiracy of at least three, if the number of pallets on the floor were any indication. She could not wait to see the look on van den Bosch’s face when she returned.
Annabelle was about to leave when she caught a glimpse of movement. She peered down the long expanse of air shaft directly in front of her. Strange.
Taking up her lantern, she trained the light down the shaft, but could see nothing. If it was someone, they had to be as quiet as a ghost, she thought, for she had not heard them pass.
Her pulse quickened. Unless Dolan had done as she’d asked and sent men into the air ducts (which was not likely) only one type of person would be lurking here besides her. If one of them had passed by, it would be impossible to think that he would have missed the lantern’s light. That meant she had been discovered, and now she was in danger.
2.
A more prudent person would surely have chosen a different shaft and fled. Instead Annabelle plunged straight ahead after her quarry, using her bandaged arm to push the lantern ahead while bracing herself with the other.
She reached a t-section and turned right, the direction she assumed the shadow had gone, and followed it for some time.
At another four-way, Annabelle saw a bright, white light coming from her left. Having spent so long in Peregrine’s gloom, she did not quite comprehend at first what she was seeing, but she quickly recovered and turned in its direction. The further along she went, the brighter the light got.
Ahead, a room beyond the grate offered enticing possibilities. What sort of place was this that its lighting was brighter than everywhere else on the station?
She was soon rewarded. At a dead end, the grate popped easily from its housing, suggesting that perhaps it had been used a number of times. Where she found herself was a small alcove that formed part of a larger room. Beyond was brightly lit, and from the moment she crawled from the air duct she felt a strange buzzing just inside her head, as if a hive of bees had taken up residence there. The air seemed to shimmer with a strange energy.
Leaving the alcove she was greeted with an awesome sight. On a platform approximately twenty feet by forty feet, was an impressive machine. It was from here the stran
ge sensations emanated.
It hummed with a ferocious vigour. Above it was a field of some kind, emanating from four metal posts, one at each corner of the machine, through which a strange, crackling energy coursed. And suspended above the machine was a swirling mass like nothing Annabelle had ever seen before. It was as though the mass was both transparent and black at the same time, for she could see through to the other side, though the light reflecting from the mass was much darker than in the rest of the room. As if the mass was also trying to devour the light, which was fighting back and glowing brighter because of it.
Awed by the scene, and uncaring if close proximity would endanger her, Annabelle drifted forward to get a better look. Being around Uncle Cyrus, she had witnessed many strange sights, but never had she seen something so forceful, so primal, as this. It was as if the mass was a living thing, an animal trapped in a cage, and in its violent revolutions within the field it demonstrated its lonely need to be free. A slight change in the field made the mass suddenly sparkle with purplish energy. Annabelle was overwhelmed with its beauty.
Something moved to her right. Too late, she recalled why she had come here in the first place, to find the bomber or one of his compatriots. Her body jerked left to run, but just as it did something crashed down across the back of her head. A bright flash of light erupted across her vision. Her legs buckled, and she dropped to the floor.
3.
She lay on the ground, not quite unconscious, yet sliding in that direction. Her eyes were sealed shut, and she was too weak then to even think of opening them. What she had, then, were her other senses, and the feeling of someone, or several someones, drawing near.
The voices she heard then were unfamiliar.
“Brennan is dead.”
“Jesus be praised. He’s blown Greenhouse Two to Hell and back, so you know.”
“I’m aware of that, thank you. I’m also aware that you were told to find and neutralise him before something like this occurred. The damage he has caused might be insurmountable, and what is worse, he nearly sat down in Stone’s lap. If I hadn’t dealt with him when I did, he might have doomed us all.”
“Sorry, sir. Should I eliminate Stone as well?”
“No! At least not yet. I want some sense of normalcy to return. Stone is aware of us now, but he is not hostile. We’ll discreetly steer him to the correct conclusion and let him repair the stabilisers for us. Only then, once his usefulness is done will we arrange an accident. Until then, we are ghosts.”
“And Miss Somerset, sir?”
“Dispose of her. She knows too much.”
“Yes, sir. Right at once, sir.”
Annabelle closed her eyes, and everything slipped away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Ode to a Juggernaut”
1.
EXCERPT 39.
“Beyond the Inner Worlds: The Journal of Professor Nathanial Stone” (Published July 2011, by Chadwick Press).
Sunday September 8th 1889.
Nine days have passed since I first arrived on Peregrine Station. Three days now since the explosion in Greenhouse Two has deprived us of one-third of our breathable oxygen.
Three days since I was nearly killed by an assassin. Three days since the mad attempt to find answers dissolved into an even madder attempt to apprehend Annabelle’s bomber, only for him to fall to this “apparition” who haunts Peregrine.
Three days since that self-same bomber stabbed Jasperse, the man charged with protecting me.
Jasperse, consequently, died this morning of his wounds. There is little to say to that. We’d thought the knife had missed the heart altogether, but apparently it had nicked the left ventricle. Another day spent at a friend’s bedside, all for naught. Another day lost.
The gunshots Provost and I heard just before the bomber was killed were the start of a massacre. Workers attempting to flee the station via the cutters were fired upon by direct order from Hague. Fourteen men were killed. Nine more were injured.
Hague has been relieved of his command following the incident, and though I don’t know how, word of van den Bosch’s involvement in damaging the stabilisers has circulated among the workers, causing a near-revolt. Fullbright has assumed command, and that has quieted the unrest somewhat, but there are many who are calling for the two men’s heads.
No longer needing to fear his wrath, I have confronted van den Bosch. He denies culpability in Professor Wren’s death despite evidence of a struggle prior to the fire. When I mention the name Le Boeuf, he flies into an uncontrollable rage. Were he not under constant guard, and in a weakened state from his brush with death, I fear he might have attacked me, such is his anger. He believes Le Boeuf has come to Peregrine Station with the sole purpose of destroying him, the reasons of which the doctor refuses to reveal. So far, he also refuses to tell how the stabilisers might be repaired, taking a maniacal glee in this, nor will he discuss the aether machine, Torquilstone. Furthermore, he continues to deny there is a power drain occurring on the station.
Thus, I am no closer to saving Peregrine Station from the vortex than I was when I first arrived. If I cannot find an answer within three days, we will be forced to abandon the station. In the meantime, Fullbright has announced a partial evacuation will occur, regardless. The destruction of Greenhouse Two has rendered our current situation untenable. We must shed all non-essential workers soon, or the very air we breathe will become toxic.
And worse, I cannot find Annabelle anywhere. She was not killed in the riots which followed the greenhouse’s destruction, nor was she among the dead who tried to commandeer the flyers. I have asked Dolan to assemble a team to scour the station for her, which he has done, but he has found no sign of her yet. I fear for her so much I cannot sleep. If I were to lose her, after all that has gone on, I don’t think—No, I will find her. And then we shall leave this Godforsaken place once and for all. But until then, I can’t sleep, and my mind, I know, suffers for it.
2.
DOCTOR Holmes emerged, wiping his hands on a damp cloth. His heavily-jowled face was lined with weariness. His gray hair was mussed, like a man who had just woken from a tumultuous sleep. The white apron he wore was stained with blood.
Nathanial offered Holmes a glass of wine when the squat, little man plopped down into his chair. Holmes shook his head at the offer, his jowls quivering. “Three more this morning,” he said. “Theories on the curative properties of the aether abound, but they don’t allow for a recovery once the wound suppurates.” He sighed, then stuck out his hand. “Better give me that wine, son, now there’s a good fellow.” Nathanial noticed as Holmes took the glass his hands shook, from exertion or an emergent nervousness, it could not be said.
Provost and Fullbright sat nearby. Provost had not recovered from their adventures in Hell. The sights of the bomber dying, Professor Wren’s ghost, and poor Jasperse succumbing to his wounds were bad enough. What was worse, when they had returned from their adventure, carrying their wounded friend between them, Provost had learned about Greenhouse Two.
He spoke of it later, when the chaos had subsided, and his voice had quivered. “I was supposed to be there this cycle. One of the men thought he had seen evidence of a blight, and I was going to see so for myself. I should have been there.” Five men had died tending the place. Provost had not spent a sober moment since.
Fullbright, on the other hand, was like a changed man. Authority agreed with him. Since the bloodless coup that had occurred hours after the massacre in the docking bay, Fullbright had been named de facto administrator. Gone now were the dark criticisms he had once voiced, replaced by a man who was quite serious about doing his job.
He had also made it his job to keep his friend Provost inebriated, and he did so now, coaxing a wineglass into the botanist’s hands.
“Here you go, old boy,” he said. “For your nerves.” A roguish smile played across his lips. “And for your liver. And for your head in the morning when it wakes and needs a good stabbing pain to
occupy it.”
No one had the energy to play along with Fullbright’s quips, and he soon ceased speaking.
Nathanial finished his glass and prepared to leave. Fullbright stopped him.
“A moment, Stone,” he said. “You know, of course, that a memorial service is being organised. Regardless of the, ah, outcome, it’s only fitting we have some sort of moment of prayer for those who’ve lost their lives recently.”
“Of course,” Nathanial said. “What would you like me to do?”
Fullbright raised his hands. “Oh! No, no. Your energies are required elsewhere. Holmes and Salt are organising. What I mean to say is, would you like us to include mention of Miss Somerset in the proceedings?”
“Give off, Fullbright,” Holmes said with a roll of his eyes. “The lad has more than enough on his mind without this.”
“No, I understand,” Nathanial replied. “Yes, George, that would be fine. Please include her. If she hasn’t returned or been found before then, we must conclude the worst.”
Fullbright grunted. Provost stirred from his daze to say, “I’m heartbroken for you, Stone. Truly I am.”
“Thank you. Thank you all.”
3.
British was alive with workers scrambling to finish the final touches to Peregrine’s interior. Additionally, Fullbright had ordered electricians and the Operations staff to engage the heliograph, which van den Bosch had previously demanded remain inoperative until the station was ready to begin transmitting.
“Bloody shame if this place should be destroyed without ever sending a single message,” Fullbright had said. “Besides, we’ll need to flash Mars to inform them we’re sending evacuees. What terrible house guests we’d make, after all, showing up with our luggage and not so much as a word of our impending arrival. Especially after the trouble our people had at Alclyon recently.”
Nathanial knew little of recent Martian politics, and so he went to look in on van den Bosch. The administrator had been moved to his private quarters to recover following the massacre in the docking bay. He was under guard at all times, more as a protection for him than a fear van den Bosch would escape. When Nathanial arrived, the doctor was awake and alert.
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