Murunga stepped between the German and Pierce.
“Kill the savage too,” von Eisen said.
Murunga's hand twitched and his ornate knife buried itself in the German soldier's chest. He fell dead while his machine continued to hum louder over the deafening sound of the siren.
“It will overload!” Himmel cried.
In the confusion, Billings struck at the soldier nearest him, taking his rifle and hitting him again with the weapon's stock. His men fell on the other distracted Germans. The soldier guarding Cooper and Granger swung his pistol around to take aim on Billings, but he fired first, putting a bullet between the German’s eyes. Other shots rang out in the melee.
Himmel reached for the Tesla weapon. Blue sparks lashed out, sizzling his fingers. He screamed, snatching his burnt hand back, his face turning ashen. He turned and ran for the nearest door.
Von Eisen pulled out his sidearm and fired, hitting Cooper in the leg before disappearing through another door.
With six Germans either unconscious or dead, the four left standing to face the British turned and ran after their major.
Liz pointed to the whining, sparking Tesla weapon. “I think we'd better get out of here. That doesn't look good.”
“Quickly, men. After them,” Billings said, rallying his soldiers.
Pierce led Murunga to the other door. “Can you find the little man?” Pierce asked the Maasai.
Murunga flashed a devilish smile. “I can track even here.”
Liz Fletcher had the arm of the wounded soldier, Cooper, helping him limp across the room. “Where are you going? We need to get to the Independence.”
Sam, his face white under bruises, grimaced as he tried to help Liz support Cooper.
“We need to find Himmel,” Pierce said. He took Cooper, nearly lifting the man off the floor. Cooper cried out as he hobbled to keep pace with Pierce.
Liz turned her help to Sam, who was at least able to walk, if not fast. They followed Murunga out the door just as the Tesla weapon crackled and erupted into a blinding flash. The sizzling machine vaporized, along with the German operator and one of his unconscious comrades.
“Hmm,” Liz said as they hurried down the corridor. “I thought that would have been worse. What was that button you pressed, by the way?”
“Don't know,” Pierce said, “but it did help with a diversion. Maybe a fire alarm.”
Murunga came walking back toward them, the motionless German slung over his shoulder.
“Oh my!” said Liz.
The Maasai tilted his head to one side. “I'm sorry, Captain. Did you want him alive?” He dropped the body onto the floor, which absorbed any thud.
Leaving Cooper leaning against the wall, Pierce went to Himmel's body and rifled through his coat pockets. “No, I just wanted these.” He held up the device with the attached clockwork crank and the notebook. “Do you know the way back to the courtyard?”
“This way,” Murunga said, and walked down the corridor with an assurance as though he had lived there all his life.
When they reached the courtyard, Liz signaled the airship to land. Her crew lowered the gangway, took charge of the wounded soldier, and everyone climbed aboard. The Independence rose again and floated high over the building.
Liz took a pair of binoculars from a cabinet and scanned the jungle below. “Von Eisen will probably try to reach the portal,” Pierce said.
An explosion thundered below them, rocking the ship. Everyone looked out the windows and saw the building collapsing in on itself. Flames licked the roof, the walls melting away like plasticine.
Liz glared at Pierce. “I guess that wasn't a fire alarm you pressed.”
He felt his face heat up. “Guess not.”
“You really need to stop fiddling with things. All that technology! Gone!”
“He’s always been like that,” Sam said, holding onto a strut for support, to keep from collapsing. His voice sounded exhausted. “Always picking things up to examine them, turning over rocks. As kids, we played army in the woods, and he’d be off exploring, crawling into caves, climbing trees. Right now, I think we’d better get back to England and warn the ministry about Himmel's weapon.”
“Himmel's dead,” Liz said, back to scanning the jungle.
“Yes, but the Germans know how to build the weapon. No telling how many they already have.”
“We need to find Billings and his men,” Pierce said. “If they made it out safe.”
The airship drifted toward the aerial still standing above the canopy.
“There!” Liz pointed down. Red uniforms wove their way through the jungle. “Von Eisen’s path. They must be tracking the Germans back to the portal.”
“Can we pick up Billings and his men?” Pierce asked.
Liz shook her head. “We can't land. Best we could do is lower a rope when they reach the clearing. And we can't go back to our original landing site, since it isn't there anymore, thank you very much.”
The airship drifted above as Billings and his men raced after the Germans. They heard an occasional shot ring out, but no skirmish took place. The British reached the clearing too late. The Germans had already passed through the portal, gone back to the safety of Berlin.
“Lower me,” Pierce said to Liz. “I'll tell Billings to take his men through the portal and get back to England. They can explain what happened and warn them of Himmel’s weapon.”
Liz flipped a switch on the panel next to the wheel and uncorked the speaking tube. “Tell him from here. This can work as an external megaphone.”
Pierce stepped hesitantly to it, taking the tube from her hand. “I say, Captain Billings. Can you hear me?”
Liz watched the group through her binoculars. “He's motioning that he can,” she said.
“Good. Ah, Billings, we can't land to pick you up. Go through the portal, and report to Colonel Shepherd. Her Majesty needs to know about the German weapon, as well as the spy von Eisen mentioned. Himmel is dead and the building, unfortunately, destroyed. If von Eisen tries to return, there isn't anything he could gain. But England must know what Germany plans. They might have more of Himmel's weapons. Take your men through. We have Cooper and my brother with us. We'll follow as soon as the airship has, ah, recharged.”
“He's setting the frequency on the portal,” Liz said. “They're going through.”
Gridley brought the airship higher. “We'll be able to activate a portal in ten minutes,” he said.
Pierce turned to Sam. “What was your mission?”
“Exploration. What else?” He gave a weak, nervous laugh. “Don’t tell me you believed what von Eisen said. England isn’t interested in gaining more colonies, Harry. We want to explore, and if in the course of exploring we come across something that helps us maintain our superiority, so much the better.”
Pierce shook his head. “No. There’s more to it. I know when you aren’t telling me everything. I saw a picture of your team. Those weren’t explorers. You, maybe. Once upon a time. Those men you led were soldiers, hardened, experienced soldiers. You were here to explore and scout.”
Sam waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, of course we were. We were sent through to see how we could exploit this new place. For England, Harry. We might be on the verge of a big war. We can’t let the Germans or Russians get the upper hand.”
“So, Shepherd lied to me. I should have known.”
“Well, if Reggie Shepherd wanted your help, of course he’d lie. So would I, as a matter of fact. Truth is, we’re struggling to maintain our world power. We’re spread too thin. We need an advantage.”
Pierce pulled Himmel’s notebook from his pocket. With that and the device, the crown could find other worlds, find the builders of the aerial, maybe exploit their knowledge, maybe exploit them, turn them into another colony. Whole worlds, colonies of the British Empire. Certainly better than the Germans conquering them, but where would it all end? He could destroy the book and the device, and all the nations would have o
nly this planet to fight over. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that. Within those pages was a universe to unlock. Not for empires, but for somebody.
“So,” Liz said, “back to England, and I'll be on my way back to America. What a shame we can't stay and explore this world a bit longer.”
Pierce turned a grin toward her and pulled the device from his other pocket. “You Americans are always in such a hurry. And we don't just have this world, but dozens more. We have frequencies for all those other planets.”
“We need to get that back to the ministry,” Sam said, pointing to the device in Pierce’s hand.
“Not just yet,” Pierce said. “No one’s going to be charging into other worlds with weapons and armies. Not us and not the Germans. Let’s try a more diplomatic approach.”
Liz grinned and snatched away the device. “I’ll take that before you start pushing things and blow it up. Besides, I’m the engineer. Maybe we can find the people who built it, that building, and all those machines. Maybe form an alliance rather than colonizing. Imagine all the marvelous things we could learn!”
“And the places we can explore.” Pierce paged through Himmel's notebook. “Ah…does anyone on board understand German?”
Both Liz and Sam shook their heads.
“Yes,” Murunga said. He took the notebook and skimmed through it. Then he looked at the curious expressions on the faces of the two brothers and the woman. “A prince is expected to have great knowledge and wisdom,” he said. “Not merely strength and courage.”
First Steps
By Zoe Adams
4th April 1878
Shijo Avenue, Gion, Kyoto
At eighteen years old, I have been told by my okasan I am a late bloomer. My name is Ichisumi Yamamoto, and this is my first official outing as a maiko. I have been preparing for this great event since arriving in Kyoto on the steam train those ten long years ago. I can still remember the smell to this day…
I am incredibly nervous. The night before, I could not sleep. I had wanted to toss and turn, while crying out for my mother, my real mother who died from an infection when I was but four years old, but alas, I could not, especially with my neck craned on the high pillow. It is an extremely uncomfortable practice, but at least it keeps my hair perfect.
My white face make-up has strangely kept intact, even though I can feel the perspiration begin to gather under my arms. I pray that it doesn’t colour my kimono. It is so beautiful that I don’t want to spoil it. Yet, I know that when I disrobe later on at the okiya, there will be some small stains, and it will be placed in a wooden box and stored high on a shelf, never to be seen for years, until the next maiko comes along. After all, a geisha will never wear the same thing. If they do, it will seem boring and bland. What would be the point of visiting a geisha to see them in the same kimono as last week? Well… that is okasan’s rule.
The kimono itself is a deep red colour, almost maroon with swirls of gold and black. The bustle ruffles with each step I take, black lace trim elegant against the silk and velvet. A great golden cog splashes up the left side of my body. When I move, it is as if it is ticking away every second, of every minute, of every hour that I spend in it.
It is nothing like the great clock in the garden with its large light display. The copper wires flicker as the motors continue to run long into the night, only to be disturbed by the splashing of the koi fish in the pond. They both have distracted me on multiple occasions as I practise my shamisen there.
The under robe is a simple white, complimenting the kimono itself. My obi is a rusted blood red, with golden flecks. It rests atop the bustle, and when I first saw it in the mirror, it looked like the sparks of a great fire. Combined with the bustle, the obi seems much longer than it should.
Now, I am walking as demurely as I can along the cobbled stone pathway, past the towering buildings of Shijo Avenue. It is like looking at a staircase, the buildings are that disjointed. They meld together in plain, bland colours, the stonework so dull and lifeless, yet the glass lanterns encourage citizens to emerge into the dusky evening—like moths to a flame. There aren’t many people walking out at the moment, yet soon, there will be hundreds.
I catch sight of myself in a darkened window, and I gasp. Shaking, I reach out and touch my reflection on the cool glass. I am beautiful. Almost as beautiful as the elegant women I have longed to become after so many years of back breaking, finger bleeding training.
I tear my gaze from my image and carry on up the street with the minimal traffic, moving to the side as a steam powered rickshaw comes roaring up, holding two drunken men that are laughing gaily with each other. Evidently, they have had too much sake. One throws a fistful of paper notes from the side of the rickshaw, and from nowhere, an unkempt street child dashes out, and snatches the coloured paper in filthy hands. He doesn’t notice me. The dust and smoke from the rickshaw swirls up and tickles my nose, making me cough and splutter in a most unladylike fashion. The boy spins on a scratched bare heel and stops, staring at me.
From the height of my okobo, I smile down at him in what I imagine to be a friendly gesture, and watch what he will do next.
With one hand, he stuffs the papers into his tatty trouser pockets. With the other, he gnaws at a torn nail on his thumb. His grey eyes are as wide as a parasol, almost fearful. No sound is made as he speeds off in the direction I have already come.
Thoughts of the young boy are with me as I continue on my way up the street. I look up and feel dwarfed by the different heights of the buildings, the light bouncing off the copper pipes of varying widths. My footsteps mingle with the surrounding environment, a gentle tap, tap, like the mechanical birds that are so popular with the older generation. Okasan leaves a handful of metal shavings for them on the bird table, and within minutes, the garden is filled with the tick-tick, tock-tock of those birds.
I gently lick my bottom lip, and my face scrunches in disgust at the taste of the painted red lipstick. It is foul—a bitter, unpleasant aftertaste. I need water to wash the taste away; it is making me feel quite sick. I take the white handkerchief from my wide, swinging kimono sleeves and dab at my tongue, attempting to take the taste away.
It doesn’t work.
I am glad Masami can’t see me, or the faces I am pulling— she would only laugh at my childlike ignorance. She is already gliding elegantly up the cobbled street, nodding to those who pass in the rickshaws, and I totter on my tall okobo to keep up. A restaurant cook watches me as I pass by, and he titters to himself, wiping a soup spoon on an already dirty apron.
I suppose, I must look a sight, a majestic maiko, running like a naughty schoolchild through the night. I calm my pace, and keep my head raised. I will show dignity at all times, even though it is hard to concentrate with the mouth-watering smell of octopus dumplings and rice balls from the Yoshida Dining, invading my nostrils. The heat from the nearby restaurants mixes with the evening air. One minute, my skin feels cool to the touch, the next, it is warm.
Masami is my elder sister, in geisha terms only. She is already a geisha and has been for a number of years. Her white collar attached to the back of her kimono informs every passer-by of this, and on this spring evening, every male notices her.
She is resplendent in a grey and brown kimono. On some older geisha, it would look dowdy, but with the equally light silver and gold patterned waves, she looks remarkably stunning, almost regal. A tight red and white obi shows off her slim figure, her bustle a lot smaller than mine. A red and silver patterned lotus flower adorns the side of a small deep grey top hat, almost like a fascinator, which has been pinned into her perfectly lacquered hair.
The perfect sight on an evening like this.
I will be lucky to get so much as a sideways glance, and I hope that tears will not fall — it will only spoil my perfectly applied black eyeliner. I would look like a panda. Then, no one will want to hire me, and I will be out of a job before I have even begun. My debts will only carry on increasing, and mother will s
ell me to be a prostitute. I have seen them in other districts — no bustle, little make-up, barely any hair ornaments or fascinators, and a tiny obi (if you could even call it that) at the front of their thin kimonos.
No geisha wants that. I would sooner die than face that prospect.
I can feel my hands shaking. My nerves are shot to pieces. I feel sick. I want to go home and crawl onto my futon, and never look at a geisha or her elegant clothing ever again. I hear Masami laugh with someone further up the street, and those tinkling peals of laughter bring me back to my senses.
I nervously raise a hand and pat the back of my black hair. It has been perfectly styled in the ofuku ‘split peach’ style, which I am told resembles a woman’s ‘cave’. I still blush thinking of that joke. It is distasteful, and I thought that the men who spoke about it in this way were crude, but now I can see what is meant by it.
Masami’s hairdresser relays the joke each time I kneel before him to get my hair fixed. As he speaks, he dips brushes and combs into sticky melted substances and the smell makes me gag. His words are meant to calm and soothe me, to keep my mind away from the pain, but sadly, I can still feel the hot oil being dragged from the roots to the tips, and it makes me want to cry. The first time I went through the procedure, I could do nothing but weep.
My ornaments that have been selected are elegant, but one dangles into my face, making me blink in alarm. I stutter to a halt and push it out of my face, attempting to tuck it behind my ear. It is shaped and coloured like a small bouquet of cherry blossoms, except these are not the pale pink colours of origin. These are black and gold.
The other is a silver comb, on which a mechanical butterfly sits. Every so often, I hear it flex its wings, giving a gentle whir, and they settle once more. It is beautiful and has been passed down from geisha to geisha in my okiya.
The maroon silk splash that is entwined in my hair, keeps the style in place.
“Masami-san, please wait!” I call out, as I attempt to hurry up to her.
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