by K. G. McAbee
Jericho rubbed his hands together. “Well, at least we shan’t starve,” he said as he began unpacking the baskets.
Nathanial was as ravenous as the others, and they all fell on the food as if—again, he shook away the uncomfortable image—it was their last meal. Some of the food was recognisable as part of their own supplies brought down from Fort David, some was native food wrapped in slick green leaves, and some was unfamiliar to all of them, but every morsel and crumb of it disappeared into three hungry mouths.
“Ah,” Annabelle said, sitting back. She eyed the two bottles of wine. “Do we dare trust O’Rourke? And even if we do take him at his word that the wine is not drugged, should we risk impairing our abilities when we make our escape? I’m perfectly happy with water, if you think it best, Nathanial.”
Nathanial picked up one of the bottles and examined the neck. “No,” he decided, “I do not think O’Rourke drugged this wine. The seal seems untouched. I think we all need a glass, even if it is Dutch courage.” He looked in the bottom of both baskets and his heart sank. “Naturally, our captor did not dare risk leaving us a corkscrew.”
“Here, let me see it,” said Annabelle, hiking up her skirt—Nathanial hastily closed his eyes—and removing her small knife from the top of her boot. “You may look now, Nathanial,” she said cheerfully, “I’m decent.”
Nathanial opened his eyes, to see Giles Jericho gazing in abject admiration as Annabelle gouged the cork from the bottle.
“Really, old man, have you no respect for a lady?” Nathanial snapped.
Jericho didn’t even glance his way. “I have all the respect in the world for Miss Somerset,” he breathed.
The cork came free and Annabelle said, “Since we have not been provided with wineglasses, forgive me.” She upturned the bottle and took several healthy swallows, then handed it to Jericho. “Ah,” she sighed. “Excellent decision, Nathanial. If only it were a better vintage. But I suppose O’Rourke didn’t wish to waste any good wine on those he intends to murder.”
Jericho choked on the wine and wiped his mouth. “Murder, Miss Somerset? Surely not! Even that bloody bounder would not dare to do such a thing. Why, we are British citizens! I am employed by Her Majesty’s government!”
“Oh, I think he would,” said Annabelle calmly. “Though I cannot for the life of me figure out why. But I, for one, shan’t go down without fighting. And considering our situation, do you think you might so far forget proprieties and call me Annabelle…dear Giles?”
Nathanial shook his head at Jericho’s reaction. Good gad, the fool looked as if Annabelle had knighted him and offered him a thousand pounds at the same time. How did she always manage to keep every single man of her acquaintance so, so…off balance?
“Now, drink some wine, Nathanial, and,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “let’s make some plans. O’Rourke had brought us some clean clothes. Obviously he has some reason behind feeding us and allowing us to clean up a bit.” She looked down ruefully at her filthy skirt and torn shirt. “He wishes us to look, shall we say, unkidnapped, perhaps?”
“Ah, I see.” Nathanial took another drink of wine then nodded. “Excellently reasoned, Annabelle!”
“I have a mind, you know, Nathanial, for all that I’m only a woman,” she said severely.
“A most amazing woman…Annabelle,” Jericho put in, in a sort of bleating sigh.
“Yes, yes,” Nathanial went on hurriedly, “so since O’Rourke wishes us to look our best, shall we say, he obviously has plans on someone seeing us.”
“Or our bodies, of course,” Annabelle pointed out calmly.
“Please, my dear girl!” Nathanial said. “Perhaps he will take us back up in the small balloon which brought us here and show us to our compatriots when asking for a ransom, simply to prove we are indeed still alive and well.”
“Or perhaps,” Jericho said hesitantly, “he intends to offer us to the Germans. That small airship Miss—Annabelle saw earlier setting down near here must belong to the bloody old Kaiser’s men. I do not doubt they’d pay a pretty penny for the inventor of the aether propeller governor.”
“Co-inventor,” Annabelle said absently.
“Regardless,” Nathanial said, barely managing not to snap, “we shall soon be seen by someone. If we were assured that this ‘someone’ would be our fellows from the plateau, I would say let us simply follow O’Rourke’s directions and be done with it.”
“But you don’t trust him, do you?” Annabelle shook her head. “Of course, neither do I. As Giles has so cleverly pointed out, we shall doubtless be offered to the Germans. And I do not wish to be offered to anyone. I would greatly prefer to escape, capture O’Rourke, and take him back to Fort Collingwood, where he would be cast into the worst conceivable prison forever. That, at least, would be my preference. What a pity he didn’t bring dear Thymon with us. I’m so worried about the poor fellow, aren’t you?”
“I am not,” said Nathanial, “since he was probably in league with our captor from the beginning.”
“You are wrong about him,” Annabelle snapped, “and you will apologise this instant!”
“Very well, very well!” Nathanial threw his arms up. “I hope Thymon was not murdered; there, will that satisfy you? And while I agree wholeheartedly with your bellicose sentiments, I do not exactly see how we can manage to capture O’Rourke, armed as we are with only a small pocketknife.”
Annabelle’s glare lessened as she seized the empty wine bottle and stood up. She walked to the back of the hut, wrapped her skirt around the bottle and hit it sharply against one of the logs which made up the wall. The tinkle of broken glass was muffled by the fabric.
“There now,” said Annabelle when she returned. She handed the jagged neck of the bottle to Nathanial. “Let’s finish the other bottle so you’ll have a weapon too, Giles. And while you two are working on that, I’m opening these other packages. Clean clothes! If you will both kindly turn your backs, I’m going to have a wash up.”
13.
High in the Clouds of Venus
Sheridan handed his message to the Rheingold’s heliograph operator, who took the stack of pages with a blank politeness which barely hid his dismay at so very long a message.
“Sorry,” Sheridan said. He causally dropped a few coins on the desk beside the fair-haired young man, who at once looked more cheerful. “It’s rather long, I admit. Hope you won’t be at it all night or anything.”
“No problem, Herr Sheridan,” said the operator as he glanced through the pages. “It will take me some time, however. I shall inform the captain we must stay aloft for perhaps…” he glanced at a chronometer hanging on the wall of the tiny heliograph cabin, “…perhaps two hours. If you will return to the lounge, please, I will let you know when I am done.”
Sheridan strolled back towards the lounge. He would have liked to watch the boy transmit his message, but he knew that Kurt would not allow it. He also knew it wouldn’t take nearly two hours to transmit even twice as long a message as he had requested to send.
No doubt Kurt wanted to read it first. Good luck to him, he thought in satisfaction. The code he’d worked out before he left Earth would not be easy to break. The message looked like a simple report of the things he’d seen and done over the last week or so, and in it he praised the German settlements lavishly.
Actually, once decoded, the message held inside it some bits of information Sheridan was sure his superiors would find interesting, including:
Germans state they have found vast supply of varenien, though information unproven. Lizard-men held in slavery in German territories. Major posts and airships heavily armed. Suspect plans for acquisition of entire planet.
Yes, thought Sheridan, I’m sure they’re going to eat up that information back home. He lit a cigar as he entered the saloon lounge and hid a smile when he noticed Kurt was not there.
Tomorrow was shaping up to be an interesting day. Varenien or not, he was going to set down in a lizard-man village
controlled by the Germans for the first time.
He settled into a comfortable armchair and took out his notebook.
14.
Early Morning
Nathanial had taken the last watch. He could hear the distant roars and cackles and squeals which he’d become familiar with in their days in the hut. The jungle around them was beginning to awaken to a new day.
Annabelle and Jericho were both asleep on either side of the cloth on which they’d dined last evening. Nathanial felt a bit silly holding the broken bottle neck, but it also gave him a bit of reassurance; at least he would be able to strike some sort of blow if needs must. He’d been concerned that O’Rourke would come back and simply take the improvised weapons away, perhaps holding them all at gunpoint to do so, but the Irishman had not reappeared.
After Annabelle was done, he and Jericho had washed as best they could in the now-lukewarm water and each had dressed in the new clothing. The choice of attire had surprised them all. While Annabelle had simply been given some of her own things they’d brought with them, the men’s clothing consisted of British army uniforms, complete with Sam Browne belts and tropical pith helmets.
Nathanial was suspicious and considered keeping his own clothing on, ragged and filthy as it was. He could not force himself to do so, however, and now wore the uniform of a captain in the infantry, while Jericho wore that of a lieutenant. Both uniforms fit surprisingly—suspiciously—well.
Suddenly a sharp sound rang out, startling the flying lizards in the surrounding brush. Only one thing made a sound like that: it was rifle fire.
Annabelle sat up, instantly alert. “Nathanial,” she whispered, “was that a gun shot?”
Jericho stirred and said sleepily, “Tea and toast, please,” then began to snore.
“Yes,” Nathanial said grimly. “It was.”
The single shot was not some anomaly. In a few moments, more shots rang out, a hideous fusillade echoing through the small encampment. Harsh squeals, some low pitched, many much higher, began to be heard in counterpoint to the rifle fire.
Jericho sat up, his eyes bleared with sleep and fear. “What in the name of all that is holy?”
Annabelle had her ear against the door. “I hear marching feet, and dying men.” She drew back, her face pale. “Dying lizard-men, I think.”
More shots rang out, seeming to go in a circle around their hut.
Then, as suddenly as the noise had begun, it was gone.
Silence, utter and complete. Somehow, to Nathanial, this was even more frightening than the previous uproar.
Annabelle trotted towards him, her small knife already in her hand. “I suggest we arm ourselves,” she said quietly.
“How in God’s name can you sound so calm?” Nathanial asked, taking his broken bottle—which now seemed worse than ridiculous—in a hand he could not help but notice was shaking as if he had an ague.
“Listen!” she hissed.
They listened as the silence was broken. Nathanial could hear the steady tread of marching feet approaching their hut. He held his breath as the sound grew closer, closer…then passed them by.
Jericho said, his voice quavering, “What do you think they plan to do with us?”
“I think we shall find out very soon,” Annabelle said. “Take your places, please, as we planned.”
Jericho at once ran to stand in the spot, which would be behind the door when it opened. Annabelle hurriedly wrapped the coarse cloth up into a bundle, tucked it against the wall and set Jericho’s pith helmet at one end.
Nathanial had to admit; in the dim light of the hut, it very nearly resembled someone sleeping.
He and Annabelle stood, side by side as they had done the day before, facing the door. Nathanial could hear harsh breathing, then realised it was his own. He took a deep breath and tried to quiet his heart, which was pounding so hard he was sure she could hear it.
Outside, the screams and howls, the marching feet, all were gone as if they’d never existed. Again, silence reigned supreme. Even the jungle noises were absent.
Had they been left alone after all, to die of thirst or starvation?
No.
The familiar squeak clunk of the bar being removed outside. The door opened.
Simon O’Rourke stepped inside, a revolver at his waist, a rifle slung over his shoulder, his white teeth showing in a feral grin.
“Now,” Nathanial heard Annabelle whisper.
Jericho bounded from behind the door, the jagged bottle neck upraised in one hand, his eyes blazing. He slashed at O’Rourke’s face, just missing an eye. Blood spurted out in a ruby stream and fell in bright drops onto the dusty floor. Jericho stopped, looking aghast at what he had done.
Calmly, as if he were attacked every day, O’Rourke slapped the glass from Jericho’s hand. Then he calmly drew his revolver and slammed it against his attacker’s head. Jericho crumpled to the floor, blood gushing from his forehead.
“No!” shouted Annabelle. She rushed forward and threw herself in front of the fallen man. “Don’t you dare!”
O’Rourke burst into laughter, though the hand holding his revolver was rock steady. “The pup bites, now, does he?” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from his face, and still the revolver pointed at Annabelle’s breast.
Nathanial was terrified, but he started forward.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you, Mister Stone.” O’Rourke’s voice was cheerful, but the warning was there. “No use meeting your Maker before you have to, is there? Now, Miss Annabelle, I do not wish to shoot you. Not you. Will you and your brave cohort move towards Stone, please?” He motioned with the hand which still held the blood-stained handkerchief.
Annabelle helped the dazed Jericho to stand and they backed carefully towards Nathanial.
When the three stood together, O’Rourke continued, “Now, that’s better.” He tucked his handkerchief away. “So. I promised you information, and information you shall have. Much good it may do you, but I have been known to keep my word.” He was careful to keep his gun pointed in their direction as he stepped a bit closer to the open door at his back. “At least, from time to time. This little masquerade here, both your uniforms and all that. There’s a German zeppelin on its way here, with an American newspaperman onboard. And what are they going to find when they arrive, you ask? Why, a village full of dead skinks, heinously murdered, some abandoned British gear about, including the weapons which killed the lizards…and two dead British officers.”
Annabelle gasped and seized Nathanial’s hand.
“And what will this newspaperman think, I’m wondering?” O’Rourke laughed, but his gun hand was steady, steady. “Why, he’ll think the bloody British have come armed into a peaceful skink village—a peaceful skink village in the German territories, mind you—massacred them all, and unfortunately died themselves in the process. Do you know what that ridge in the distance is, the one Miss Annabelle described so well after her recce around the hut? It’s a varenien outcrop.”
Now it was Nathanial’s turn to gasp.
“Oh, aye, you know what I’m saying now, do you not, Mister Stone? This newspaper man’s reports back to Earth, of the vicious British murdering innocent skinks for their precious varenien, why, it’ll upset the entire planet.”
Jericho spluttered, “No one would believe you! But, but…if they did, this could start a war, damn you!”
O’Rourke nodded gleefully. “Indeed it could, and will, if I have any luck at all.” He slid his revolver into its holster and, almost with the same smooth motion, unslung his rifle. “This is an Enfield, as you can see,” he said conversationally as he loaded a round in the chamber. “My employers have left nothing to chance. Even the bullets the Germans dig from your bodies, as well as all the bodies of the poor dead skinks, will be British made. After you are both dead, I shall lay you out as if you turned on each other in your greed.”
“You can’t mean to murder Miss Somerset,” Nathanial said, and cur
sed the tremble in his voice.
“Now that’s a very interesting point, me boyo.” O’Rourke took a further step inside, no doubt so as to get a better angle on his first shot. “I would dearly hate to harm such a lovely lady, I would indeed. Me dear old mother would turn in her grave at the very thought. So, Miss Somerset, I will offer you a choice. I will take you with me, to the German territories, as me darling bride.” He raised his rifle and aimed it at Jericho’s heart. “Of course, I’ll have to do something to keep you silent, but you won’t need a tongue in your head, not for what I have planned. Still, eternal silence is better than eternal death, I’m thinkin’. Decide quickly, me girl, for there’s not much time.”
Nathanial said, “Do it, Annabelle! You have no choice!”
To his amazement, Annabelle turned and glared at him. “Do you think me less brave than an Englishman, Mister Stone?” she asked, her voice cold.
“Now that’s the lovely I shall clasp to my bosom,” O’Rourke cackled as he lowered his rifle.
Annabelle stepped forward and faced O’Rourke calmly. “You, sir, are a cad and a bounder, and I would prefer to die with my friends than to have you touch my little finger.”
O’Rourke stepped back to the very centre of the open door, his tall sturdy body outlined with light as if he were indeed the Angel of Death. He shrugged. “Well, never say Simon O’Rourke didn’t give you a choice, my lovely. I’ve sent all my men away, for this is a job I shall enjoy doing all myself.”
He raised his rifle and pointed it directly in Annabelle’s face.
15.
After Breakfast on the Rheingold
“Are you quite sure you’ve finished, Mister Sheridan?” Kurt asked solicitously. “Another cup of coffee, perhaps? More toast?”
Sheridan threw down his napkin, trying to hide his excitement. “I am quite satisfied, I thank you.” He patted the small brown camera beside his plate. “And I have all my gear, notebooks, pencils, everything. I am ready when you are.”