Brotherhood of the Strange (Kingship, Tales from the Aether Book 1)

by Michael Richie

  Kingship: Tales from the Aether

  Book One

  Brotherhood of the Strange

  Michael T. Richie & Grant S. Wilson

  To Holly and Reanna,

  for believing.

  Chapter I

  Degory Priest checked one of the two watches he carried in his black waistcoat for the third time in nearly as many minutes, fumbling at the catch with a nervousness that was wholly uncharacteristic of his usual behavior. Confirming the time on one, he compared it then to the other, a perfect match down to the second. The watches ticked away in synchronous order, which, up till recently, would have been the perfect description of Degory’s life. He pocketed both timepieces and turned to view himself in the tall looking glass which adorned his study. It, like so much of the rest of the large room, was covered in a fine layer of chalk dust, something he would have never let occur in the past. The dusty mirror gave his appearance a ghostly, almost ethereal quality, as if he were a mere shade of his true self. In some ways, this was true. He was not the man he used to be, certainly not a man who wore two pocket watches, one on a gold chain and the other in clashing silver. Even with the sentimentality that one had belonged to his father, and the other to his mother, such a fashion faux pas was unbecoming of a gentleman of his station, as was his wrinkled appearance, the result of his third day in the same suit. Degory was no longer a wide-eyed young scientist, excited at his membership in the Brotherhood of the Strange, thrilled at being entrusted with the hidden knowledge of the world, both arcane and scientific. The world which used to be full of wonder and honor had changed, and in that changing had put Degory onto his self imposed, and quite possibly fated, mission. Stresses from the past few years were taking their toll, the least of which was a speckling of gray in his otherwise jet black hair and goatee. Had he thought himself a lesser man, one willing to look the other way like so many others, he could have continued with his comfortable life inside the Brotherhood, but he knew too much now and experienced far too many things to remain silent. Always a tactful gentleman, Degory prided himself on his ability to blend into whatever a social situation required of him and had used that skill to avoid rousing suspicion from the internally rotting Brotherhood as long as he could. However, events were now in motion, events which held ominous portents for the future, should he fail.

  Turning away from the mirror he eyed the room where he had made so many advancements and accomplished wonders, the likes of which few would ever see, much less understand. There was still work to be done and a few loose ends to tie up before he could put his plan into action. If he hurried, he might have time to freshen up and change. There was an internal need to look the gentleman he knew he was, even if no one saw him. In fact, that was the point, no one should see him if everything went to plan. Yes, Degory would make sure he left himself a few minutes to put on another suit before he left.

  Degory’s study was large, and resembled more of a laboratory than a proper study. In addition to the myriad books were all manner of scientific instruments and equipment. Strange contraptions lay half-built in the corners and much of the wall space was filled with chalkboards, each of them covered with mathematical formulae, perplexing geometries, and notes from his success and failures. Spanning four of the largest boards was a detailed schematic of the device, only partially tested and upon which the success of his whole mad scheme depended. Of course, the schematic would need to be erased, the journals to which he had committed his notes burned, and the device itself hidden, possibly destroyed, once he had completed his self imposed mission. He could not afford to let this invention fall into the hands of the faction within the Brotherhood of the Strange that had been responsible for its fall from grace, known only in whispered conversation as the Hand of Paris. The fact Degory had designed and built this device using the nearly inexhaustible financial and material resources of that same Brotherhood was a form of poetic justice to the brilliant scientist turned revolutionary.

  In the center of the room lay the device itself. It was covered with a drop cloth in what proved to be a futile attempt to keep the sensitive equipment clean. Degory removed it, exposing his curious invention to the mid-afternoon light streaming in from the domed skylight above. Brass and crystal gleamed and reflected that sunlight from its complicated surface. It wasn’t overly large, a single seat, with a control panel consisting of levers, clockwork gears, and several spindles of numbers, all situated astride a small furnace and boiler system connected to a series of electrical condensers. This whole apparatus was framed by pylons that led to a series of nine concentric rings, the largest some four feet in diameter, diminishing in size to about a foot in diameter. Each one was capable of rotating within a larger one creating an effect not unlike an armillary. In the center of these rings lay a small piece of levitite, certainly not enough to counter the effects of gravity such as it was used in aetherships, or one of the thousands of the floating uplands filling the skies for the last century and a half since the Calamity. Degory had used this levitite as a navigational aid, as the material was prone to follow the Earth’s natural ley lines. These currents of mysterious energy had increased the accuracy of the machine significantly after his first few test jumps, one of which had landed him miles off course deep in a heather choked swamp. Not only had the machine required a thorough disassembly and cleaning after that, Degory had ruined a perfectly good, and expensive, pair of Italian shoes.

  Brushing his hand over a decorative knob of brass, Degory recalled those first few attempts some months back. He had kept his brother Edward current with his progress on the project and while they often bickered, his brother was every bit the scientific genius he was and helped him get through some mathematical equations which had for awhile eluded him. It had actually been Edward’s suggestion to use levitite as a navigational anchor. He also referred to Degory’s invention in the various circles of the Brotherhood of which he was also a member, as the Time Machine, much to Degory’s ire, which is likely why Edward did it. Degory had explained on multiple occasions it was not a time machine, at least, not in the sense most people thought, or many scientists strived for. It was, rather a Temporal and Spatial Displacement Accelerator; a device that could indeed travel through time and space, though in conversation Degory had shortened that simply to ‘Temporal Accelerator’. However, it was limited by the fact it could only travel one direction, into the future. Try as he might, Degory could not get the equations to work to make the device roll time backwards. It was probably just as well, as this machine was already a formidable power to wield. It was a power the scientist in Degory was in awe of, but the pragmatist within equally feared as his intent had never been to build a “time machine” of any sort. Rather, his original purpose was to create, in effect, a near instantaneous form of transportation. Though the device was not yet perfect, it did indeed work. One could sit in the Accelerator, travel one second into the future and arrive in New York having departed from London. Trial and error had shown one second was by no means the limit of the device, and he figured he had missed about a total of nearly eight days in his experimentation. It was this very characteristic he hoped to now exploit. Degory now regretted having involved his brother in so much of his design. Though he had indeed been a help and a sounding board for his ideas, of late he had grown more secretive in his own work, conferring more and more with people whom Degory knew to be more loyal to the Hand of Paris than to the Brotherhood of the Strange. It took a long while to come to terms with it, but Degory was forced to admit his own brother was a
member of the vile Hand of Paris.

  Degory stoked the coal fire in the small furnace of the Temporal Accelerator to generate enough steam pressure to turn the rings and activate the device. The built-in condensers had enough of an electrical charge from the house’s steam generator for several jumps, but Degory wanted to ensure there would be sufficient power for any contingencies which might occur. As the boiler heated, Degory commenced a meticulous purging of all references to the Accelerator. His bound books and loose-leaf notes were cast into the lit fireplace, which he repeatedly stirred with a fire poker to ensure all were reduced to ash. He then set about removing his notes and schematics from the chalk boards. Not content to merely erase them, which all too often left a fainter, but still discernible image, Degory set about erasing them with a wet sponge. Chalk tainted water ran up his sleeve, soaking his shirt well past the elbow as he reached up to the top of some of the larger boards. There was now no question about it, he would absolutely have to make time to change before his departure.

  The nervous inventor even went so far as to smash to pieces the scale model of the Temporal Accelerator sitting on his desk that had taken a month for his niece Cordelia to build under his direction. They had worked on it together as they had done on so many projects and designs, her imagination as active and inventive as his own. Always had he been close to his niece, Edward’s daughter, which only ever served to add to the friction between the two brothers. For, while Degory knew both of her parents cared for her, she was by no means the first priority in their lives, save to show off their extremely gifted daughter to London’s elite as part of the farce that they were indeed the perfect family. Her mother was a well known clockwork engineer and her father had made great advancements in understanding the workings of human anatomy. It had always seemed to Degory they were married to their work first, each other second, and their daughter a distant third. Of course Cordelia saw through this, which in some ways made the situation worse. It had taken a while for her parents to acknowledge her genius, and even then it was Degory who had pulled some strings and called in a few favors to get her admitted to Oxford University. There she had advanced rapidly, graduating last year with a degree in the recently created field of science known as Micro Clockwork Mechanics. Degory looked at the ornately framed picture of his niece on his desk perched among the now mangled frame and smashed cogs of the model. He would do everything he could to keep her safe, keep her away from what the Hand of Paris was planning, though he feared in his darkest thoughts she would be dealt no small measure of turmoil before he was able to expose and put an end to their evil. Degory shuddered at the thought of his young, beautiful niece going through some of the horrors his research and observation had told him was coming, and with that shudder he redoubled his efforts going so far as to not only completely erase evidence of the device, but to make it look as if his study had been ransacked by uncouth thugs. It would help him to cement an alibi should something go awry. If no one suspected him, no one would think to go after her. Not that Degory had let Cordelia in on his current course of action, she was far safer that way. This was merely an added measure of protection, though it pained him to see the place where he did his best work in such disarray. Satisfied with the chaos of the room, Degory checked both pocket watches again. Fifteen minutes till departure. Even though he had the Temporal Accelerator and could theoretically leave up to a single second before he was to arrive somewhere he was not yet confident enough to make his jumps without precise calculations, and there were so many variables to factor in that Degory had spent a week calculating this jump as well as the jump to escape. If all went well he would take a two minute trip, and by his calculations, return to his study three hours later, perhaps in time for tea or something stronger at the Athenaeum, a gentleman's club to which Degory had a full membership due to some of his more published scientific achievements. He would then make the final calculations for the third jump, which would land his machine one year hence, and hopefully, buy him the time he needed to set things right in the Brotherhood he so cherished.

  Checking the temperature on the boiler, he found it was right where it was supposed to be. Taking advantage of his last few minutes, he quickly retired to his dressing room and put on a fresh suit, one of his favorites he often wore when called upon to lecture. To this he added his black bowler hat and a dark frock coat, though it was not yet evening, but would be when, and if, he returned. He considered taking his plasmatic pistol with him, but wasn’t sure if he had remembered to charge the condenser. It probably would not do him much good anyway for it was a dueling pistol, and an old one at that, with but one shot and no way to swap out condensers. Recharging it required about fifteen seconds of turning the included crank, which could amount to an eternity in a fight. Also, Degory was never very proficient with firearms, particularly energy weapons such as this. Rather, he reached instead for his walking stick, the shaft concealing a gentleman's small sword, a weapon which had served him on several occasions and with which he was far more than merely proficient. Finally, he chose between the two watches, placing the silver lady’s one in his waistcoat, a memento from his mother. Memories of her made Degory almost wish his Accelerator could travel backwards as well. If so, maybe he wouldn’t have so many regrets about his past or fears for his future. His discarding of one pocket watch allowed him space to take a very unique timepiece, one that would countdown the year he expected his Temporal Accelerator to be traveling to in the future. This was yet another project Cordelia had helped him with, her knowledge of tiny, intricate clockwork parts far outmatching his own. He never did tell her, again for her sake, what he intended to use it for.

  Prepared as he could be, Degory sat in the plush, velvet seat of his Temporal Accelerator, and made a few final adjustments to the instruments. Flipping the contact switch the nine circles began to rotate, each opposite the ones adjacent. The air started to hum and crackle with strange energies as the machine’s various systems came into alignment. Blue, orange, and hues indescribable began to glow from the now rapidly rotating circles. Air began to move, and soon a significant wind was blowing in the room whipping the layer of chalk dust into a frenzy. Degory squinted at the onslaught of light and dust realizing he must be the only person in Victoria II’s London who did not own a pair of goggles. A nebulous bubble of pale blue energy then surrounded him, a few adjusted knobs soon turned it into a truly perfect sphere. He was ready. Degory grasped the ivory and brass lever that represented, for him, the point of no return and pulled it. There was a bright light, accompanied by a rush of wind and a loud crack as air rushed into the vacuum created by Degory Priest’s departure.

  Chapter II

  Maxfield LeRoy slowly read the telegram brought to him on a polished silver tray by one of the many manservants who attended to the needs of important people such as himself. This one at least had the sense to excuse himself quickly and quietly once his menial errand was completed.

  “Damn this print”, Maxfield stated, referring to the very small font that always adorned wireless radio telegrams. The unique form of Morse lay printed across the top of the page with the translation below set in such small a typeface he needed to don a pair of spectacles to read it without squinting and making his headache even worse. A headache that of late had been a near constant companion. Maxfield once had eyes as sharp as a hawk’s, and was always a stickler for the finest of details. His duties, his sacred duties, and obligations had taken their toll over the past few years. That was a matter of little import as he had been chosen to bring about a great and wondrous work, a work far beyond the scope of most mortal men. A work he had often felt ill equipped for, yet at times it seemed he had been lent an almost inhuman endurance. Through it all he had been prompted, motivated, and at times chastised, by the unceasing whisperings of the Box. It was always there on the edge of his consciousness, talking to him, giving him instruction. Informing him that he, Maxfield LeRoy had been chosen by the Gods to be their instrument, their
prophet. Like all flesh, his was weak, and he viewed his headaches as a sign of that. One which he would have to endure, and endure it gladly, for the honor of being the holiest of men.

  Setting his brass rimmed spectacles into place on his thin nose he began to read. The news was good; both Jupiter and Mars projects were proceeding ahead of schedule, its whereabouts remaining a well guarded secret. This was no small miracle, given the sheer scope and size of the project. Glancing over at the Box, resting as it always did on its marble pedestal, Maxfield could feel approval emanating from its ancient frame. Tiny gears ticked rhythmically away across its ornate surface and arcane symbols from cultures predating known history turned in a near incomprehensible countdown. The Box was one of the innumerable artifacts of antiquity kept in the stewardship of the Brotherhood of the Strange and was by no means the most well known. In fact, it seemed in the fifty years it had been in their possession, it had largely gone unnoticed. While it was ornate, it was no more so than many of the other artifacts. Neither was it overly impressive in stature, being about the size of a large book. Nor could anyone else hear the voices speaking from it which was without a doubt reserved only for the worthy. It was an irony not lost on him as to most the Box had been such an afterthought upon its finding that it had been named ‘Pandora’s Box’ for no other reason than to attribute it a label in the records, records which Maxfield used to so painstakingly manage. Yet he knew it was more important than all of the wealth and resources of the Brotherhood of the Strange and it was up to him to use that same wealth to bring about the desires of the voices, the voices of the Gods.

  Maxfield continued to look over the remainder of the telegram. In addition to the progress report there were requisitions for more coal, more cold weather gear, more mining equipment, more plasmatite, more of almost everything needed by the Jupiter project. He would have to meet with the Council of Brothers to acquire the funds but it would not be an issue as the Council was scheduled to meet in less than an hour, their aetherships arriving presently. Eight of the twelve on the Council were believers, like him. It had taken a herculean effort to convert and infiltrate sections of the Brotherhood all the way to the top but as it was Maxfield’s destiny to lead, it only made sense this group which he called the Hand of Paris, (a secret society within the most secret organization on earth) be successful, no matter the obstacles that lie in the way.