series 01 03 “THE GHOSTS OF MERCURY”

by By Mark Michalowski

  As Saul untied the boat, Joe took up the oars and began to row. Such was the power in his arms that they made swift progress, reaching the other side in just a few minutes. A series of wooden posts had been hammered into the ground, stretching several hundred yards along the river’s edge—presumably to account for different rowing speeds. The boat was tied up and they all splashed onto the sand.

  “What?” Annabelle said, as one of the men muttered something.

  “What?” echoed Heath, a little puzzled.

  “Someone said something—didn’t they?” She frowned and Saul laughed, white teeth flashing in the dim light.

  “Reckon you must be hearing things, miss,” he said, lifting his backpack into place. “Maybe it’s one of them there ghosts.”

  Saul winked and Joe laughed too—but Heath threw the pair of them a sharp look, and Saul’s smile guttered out instantly. They knew of his own experience with ghosts and should have known better than to make fun of such things.

  “How much further?” Annabelle asked, gathering her jacket about herself. There was a surprisingly cool breeze tonight, especially on the open water.

  “Not far, miss,” Heath said, indicating a dark patch in the much lower cliff wall at the far side of the beach. “Should be there in about fifteen minutes, I reckon.”

  7.

  Little did they know, but Nathanial and Arnaud had missed Annabelle by just ten minutes. Indeed, if they hadn’t been in such a rush to get to the cavern and had spent a few moments looking out across the river, they could have seen the tiny shape of the boat tied up on the far side.

  “Have you given any thought to what we’re actually going to do once we get there?” Arnaud asked. “These are trained soldiers.”

  Nathanial had indeed given it thought. But since he’d come up with nothing concrete other than “stop them”, he’d pushed that aspect of their plan to the back of his mind, hoping that something clever occurred to them once they were there. “We’ll think of something,” he said, hoping he sounded confident, as they ducked into the entranceof the cave.

  “If you’re thinking that we will wrestle them and overpower them, I think you might be mistaking me for someone who was ever good at the sports. I cannot even swim, mon ami!”

  “Damn!” Nathanial said, as he realised that there was something they should have borrowed to bring along. “I should have asked Annabelle for her gun, shouldn’t I?”

  “She carries a gun? And I thought she was the very model of an English lady.”

  “Appearances can be deceptive,” Nathanial smiled. “Not that she isn’t a lady, of course, just American,” he added. “A very well-armed one.”

  As they turned the corner into the passageway containing the generator, they could hear it sputtering ahead of them, and see the glow of the wall-mounted lamps beyond it.

  “They must already be here, then.” Nathanial’s stomach clenched a little.

  “It is a shame that Annabelle did not tell us how many of them there would be,” Arnaud said. “Perhaps we should have found the colonel and told him.”

  “Oh, I don’t think Shawbridge would have been in any mood to listen to me, Arnaud. More likely he’d have has us locked up or court-martialled or something.”

  Arnaud reached down and picked something up: it was an offcut of the wooden staves that had been used to shore up the tunnel. It was only about a yard long, but Arnaud swished it around like he knew what he was doing. “I took a few sword-fencing classes,” he said by way of explanation. “Many years ago.”

  “Oh good,” Nathanial said archly. “Fencing with a stick. Yes, that should show the blighters that we’re serious.”

  “See if you can find yourself one,” Arnaud said. “We have nothing else, do we?”

  Nathanial found himself one—a little shorter than Arnaud’s. As if that was likely to make any difference if it came to a fight.

  “You know that they may well have guns, don’t you?”

  “Oh,” Arnaud said, coming to a stop. “You think that now is the moment to point this out to me, do you?”

  Nathanial couldn’t help but smile. “I fail to see the source of your disconcertment. With Excalibur there, you’re going to be pretty much invincible. As they say—into the fray, mon ami. Into the fray!”

  Chapter Twelve

  “In Which Shawbridge Is Made an Incredible Offer”

  1.

  Shawbridge entered the cave with some trepidation—only to discover that his ghost had disappeared. He now felt quite alone and vulnerable, and the fears that he’d been a stupid old man grew further.

  He noticed the pile of rocks that he imagined must have been the Frenchwoman’s burial mound, and the negative connotations of it compounded his edginess. He was on the point of turning around and making haste back to the surface when something a little like smoke began to form in the air in the centre of the cavern. Within seconds it had grown denser and stronger, and Shawbridge could see that it was a sort of swarm made up of many millions of sparkling fragments, like tiny pieces of glass.

  And then, making him start somewhat, the cloud drew in on itself to take the form of a man. A giant man, but a man nonetheless, although possessed of no facial features. Once his initial alarm had died down, he realised that this must be the Hermes chap that Nathanial had mentioned.

  “Colonel Ernest Shawbridge,” boomed a voice right in the centre of his head. It was a deep tenor, a man’s voice, but as it continued speaking, the pitch and timbre of the voice shifted around most discomfortingly. “You are not a happy man, are you?”

  “He told you that, did he?” Shawbridge said, referring to the ghost that had led him down there. “The other fella.”

  There was a pause before Hermes replied. “In a manner of speaking, yes. You appeared to be contemplating leaving a moment ago. Why?” There was genuine curiosity in the voice—that had steadied at a rather effeminate man’s voice, which rather disconcerted him.

  “I don’t have to account to you!” Shawbridge snapped.

  “Is that how you see my question? It was simply curiosity. I apologise if I’ve offended you, Colonel.”

  “Yes,” huffed Shawbridge. “Well, all right then. But remember I’m in charge of this planet, not you.”

  “Your remit extends beyond yourself and Princess Christiana Station and its personnel, does it?”

  “This,” said Shawbridge, pointing at the ground, “is part of the British Empire I’ll have you know. So yes, it does.”

  “Ah,” Hermes said and there was a sudden fascination in his voice. “The British Empire. And the Russian one as well. What is it that is so special about the British Empire?”

  “What kind of a question is that? It’s the empire. With Her Majesty Queen Victoria sitting right at the centre of it. Our territories cover half of the map.”

  “That is not true.” There was an even longer pause. “That was a lie was it not?” A strange sort of hunger had crept into Hermes’ voice now.

  “Well, perhaps not in land area. But it’s a Hell of a lot bigger than those bloody Russians, let me tell you.”

  “Why is the British Empire so diametrically opposed to that of the Russians?”

  “You’re asking rather a lot of stupid questions, aren’t you? Any sane person knows why. Everything they stand for must be fought. And crushed.”

  “But why? You are made of the same flesh, eat the same food, experience the same emotions, breathe the same air. How can such a division be possible in people of the same species?”

  Hermes seemed genuinely puzzled. If he couldn’t understand simple concepts like that, then how did he expect to be able to help Shawbridge?

  “It seems very wasteful.”

  “Wasteful?”

  “Of lives, of resources. Of time. Why can you not talk and reach a resolution, a compromise that suits both sides?”

  “Because that’s not the way it is,” Shawbridge pointed out, his voice forceful. “Some people refuse to listen. Th
at’s what this war is all about—proving to them once and for all that there is only one way civilised people should live. The British way.”

  “I mentioned this to Professor Nathanial Stone but they had to leave so the conversation was abandoned, but I believe I have a theory about why humans have such binary thinking.”

  “What’s that, then?” he asked Hermes suspiciously, assuming it was some sort of insult.

  “You see things as a choice of two distinct states. Black and white, love and hate, male and female.” Hermes paused. “Left and right.”

  “Sorry old chap, but you’re losing me. I’m not sure what it is you’re saying.”

  “That humans rarely think in shades of grey. Your language and your perceived reality is structured in a binary way. The British Empire versus the Russian one. It does not seem to have occurred to you that there are many shades of economic system in between, and that one of them would surely suit both parties and bring an end to the war.”

  “And throw away the British Way of Life? No thank you, sir!”

  “You are making my point for me, Colonel Shawbridge. And do you want to know my theory about why that is?”

  Shawbridge couldn’t have given two figs for any theory, but found himself nodding anyway.

  “You are creatures with bilateral symmetry.” Hermes anticipated Shawbridge’s puzzlement. “Each half of you is symmetrical—approximately. Two eyes, two legs, feet—and hands.”

  “And?” This was the sort of gobbledegook he could get from Stone; he didn’t need to hear it from a floating man made of light or insects or glass or whatever.

  “With only two hands to pick up objects or to gesticulate with to amplify verbal communication, you are forced to pick the two extremes on any continuum. This—you indicate with one hand; or that—with the other. I suspect that had you been trilaterally symmetrical that your innate sense of balance and symmetry would be to pick two extremes and a midpoint. With four hands, you would pick the extremes and two points equidistantly from each other. With five—”

  “I’m not stupid,” cut in Shawbridge. “I get it. But what has this to do with the British Empire, for God’s sake?”

  “Had humans evolved three arms, I imagine that a third economic system would have arisen to counterbalance the other two. You think in such a limited way, and that is not meant to be an insult, Colonel Shawbridge. Those limits have been programmed into you by your biology and physiognomy. If I understand the concept correctly, there is a certain irony in my evolving on a planet like Mercury, eternally fixed in position so that one side is in perpetual dark, the other in perpetual light, is there not? A non-binary organism on a binary world.”

  Shawbridge snorted. “And that makes you perfect?”

  Hermes paused as if actually considering that possibility. “In one sense, yes. I have no symmetry whatsoever. I have no fixed physical form. It changes as parts of me are damaged and others are constructed, threading through the planet. Therefore, if my theory is true, then I can imagine and consider all possibilities equally. I do not seek out the extremes as you do. So my decisions must, logically, be more balanced and considered than your own.”

  Shawbridge gritted his teeth. The only thing that stopped him from telling Hermes exactly what he thought of him and his ruddy ideas was that the more he listened to all this nonsense, the more he felt that Hermes—as his ghost had promised him—owed him. “Well,” he said, smiling fakely. “My…” He gestured vaguely. “My ghost said you had a plan or something for me. What’s all that about, then?”

  “I do have a plan, Colonel Shawbridge.” The figure raised a fuzzy arm, trailing behind it the tiny sparkles of light until they caught up with it, and pointed to the wall of the cave to the right of where Shawbridge had entered.

  “What are they?” Shawbridge asked, moving round to get a better view of what appeared to be two figures—normal, human-sized figures—carved out of some sort of pinkish ice. They stood side by side on a plinth of rock, like statues. “Ice sculptures?” He took a couple of wavering steps onto a pile of rock to get closer—and reached out and touched the closest statues. It was glassy and slick, but not at all cold.

  “They are made of crystal, Colonel Shawbridge. I have made them for you.”

  “For me?” It was only when he moved a few paces around that he could actually recognise the closest figure. “I’ll be damned!” he said slowly. “That’s Her Majesty, isn’t it? Queen Victoria!” He moved still further to see if he could identify the second. His eyes didn’t seem to be liking the light down here, for it looked a little indistinct—until it seemed to snap into focus.

  Shawbridge turned back to Hermes. “Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. Well,” he exhaled and shook his head, “I’ll be damned. And you made those did you?”

  “Yes. As gifts for Her Majesty Queen Victoria. From me. And you,” Hermes gestured at Shawbridge with his hand, “will deliver them personally to her. You will give her the two most exclusive gifts that I imagine she has ever received. You, Colonel Shawbridge. You.”

  2.

  “DAMN IT!” grumped Nathanial as he felt Arnaud poke him in the back with his wooden sword. “I do wish you’d stop that, you know. We’re grown men, not schoolboys. If you’re like this now, I dread to think of what you must have been like as a child.”

  “I was the very perfection of school boys,” Arnaud replied.

  Nathanial couldn’t be bothered correcting Arnaud, because suddenly they were in sight of Hermes’ cavern, and he imagined he could hear voices. “Sssh!” he said, putting his finger to his lips. “Listen!”

  In silence they struggled to hear what was being said, and although they couldn’t quite make out the words, the two voices were distinctive—one of which had the acoustics they’d have expected, the other of which was speaking right into their heads: the former was Colonel Shawbridge, the latter Hermes.

  “But where are Annabelle and Heath?” Arnaud said, mystified and looking back up the corridor.

  “Perhaps they were delayed or something—or maybe they are there but have not spoken,” Nathanial suggested. There was no possible hiding place between where they stood and the entrance to the cavern.

  “Perhaps,” said Arnaud wiggling his eyebrows again and lowering his voice to a whisper, “they have entered the cavern ahead of us and are hiding, waiting for the moment.” He said “Boom!” silently and mimed an explosion with his hands.

  A sudden, ghastly thought struck Nathanial. “What if Heath is planning on taking himself out when he blows Hermes up? And Annabelle!”

  “But he would not do such an un-gentlemanly thing, would he? He’s British!”

  “He’s also probably stark staring mad, Arnaud.” This made up Nathanial’s mind and he set off quietly—but determinedly—for Hermes’ cavern, Arnaud close behind.

  3.

  Annabelle and her partners-in-crime’s progress was relatively swift, but she was pleased she had her jacket and had put on a tough old pair of walking boots: the floor was wet and slippery, and some of the passages they had to navigate were perilously narrow, their walls as gritty and rough as sandpaper. She suspected, sadly, that after this little experience, she might have to throw the jacket away, so worn would be the elbows.

  She pulled out her pocket watch. One thing she would never throw away, because much like Nathanial’s satchel that contained his precious books and journal, the watch was one thing from which she would not be parted. It did not matter how much gear they had left behind on Venus, the watch would go everywhere with her. It was, after all, a gift from her father. Being in caves always reminded her of her parents, and she often found herself playing with the contours of the watch when her thoughts returned to them.

  She shook her head and checked the time. It was later in the day than she had thought, and she returned the watch to her pocket, wondering how Nathanial was faring up in Princess Christiana Station.

  Heath was a few yards in front of her, turning sideways to
get through a particularly tight crack. For a moment, she wasn’t sure he was going to be able to get the stout, rope-handled box that contained the detonator through with him. But with much wriggling and cursing he pulled it through after himself. He caught Annabelle’s eyes and gave a simple half nod—as if he now saw her as a fully-fledged conspirator. She didn’t quite know how she felt about that.

  Realising that Joe (who must have had even more of a struggle to get through the narrowest bit) and Saul were right up behind her, she returned her watch to her pocket and got a move on, following Corporal Heath. By the time she’d caught up with him, he was standing in a much more comfortable widening of the passage waiting for the three of them to catch up.

  “Not far now,” he said to Annabelle. “Another twenty yards or so and there’s another bit like this, which is where we set up this baby,” he nudged at the detonator in its case, on the floor. “And the actual explosives go another twenty yards beyond: just in the entrance to that Devil’s lair.”

  “And then what?”

  “Wire those beauties up to this, set it going, and go and tell that creature what I really think of it.”

  “You don’t mean you’re going to stay there while the dynamite goes off?” Annabelle was aghast.

  “Not planning to, miss. But if that’s what it takes, then that’s God’s will—and who am I to argue with Him?”

  “But that’s madness! How can you possibly know that’s what God wants, Paul?”

  He gave her wink. “I know, miss,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “I know. He has a plan for my life. I’ve known it for years. And this might be where it all ends. But it’s for a reason, isn’t it? The best reason ever.”

  Annabelle’s heart was racing: if planning to blow yourself up wasn’t insane enough, he actually thought he was fulfilling some sort of plan. God’s plan. It struck her that that’s what they were all doing, really—he just had an insight into how the plan ended. Or a vision. Or maybe just the screams of a madman, rocketing around in his head. She thought about getting away from there. If Heath was as unbalanced as that little speech made him sound, then how could she trust his judgment about whether Hermes should be killed or not? Had she just been too stupid and too blind not to see it all along?