Dawn's Early Light

by Pip Ballantine

  . . . and Wellington could no longer smell the ocean, dirt, steam, or smoke. All he could smell was a scent that made his mouth water. It was the smell of metal baking in the sun, a bitter taste of copper on his tongue. It was a scent Wellington had caught before being snatched up by the Culpepper twins.

  When the flashes subsided and his vision returned, the sky above him now yielded a massive airship, one that would easily dwarf Apollo’s Chariot. It would have to in order to compensate for the gunports running along its hull.

  “Where the hell did that come from?” Bill swore.

  Wellington went to answer when the sight of another car speeding from the lighthouse caught his attention.

  “Hold on, everyone,” he shouted, the motorcar’s engine snarling like a wild cat on the hunt, “we’ve got an airship to catch!”

  Their motorcar shot across the dirt and grass, quickly closing on this new car that made a mad dash of its own for the titanic aircraft descending just ahead of them. Wellington could just make out a driver, and two men in the car. The passengers kept looking back at them as they closed the distance.

  A gunshot rang in his ear, and Wellington’s attention switched to his side mirror. He flinched as a second bullet shattered it but not before he recognised the reflection as a motortruck he had lost track of during the battle. They had to catch the airship in front of them, but they also needed to get rid of the motortruck behind.

  “Wellington?” he heard Eliza call from the backseat.

  “Eliza, Bill, hold on tight!” Wellington motioned to Felicity what appeared to be a smaller version of the car’s brake handle. “Pull that back please! Hard!”

  He could see Felicity didn’t quite trust him after the rocket launcher, but with a grumble, she slapped her hand around the handle, squeezed, and growled as she yanked it towards her. Both Eliza and Bill let out startled squawks as the tumble seat collapsed on itself, then burst back open, only this time the backseat was facing the opposite direction, giving its occupants a departing view of their journey. Eliza and Bill, having been tossed and turned during the transformation, ended up sprawled out across the cushions. The shock was slightly mitigated, Wellington hoped, by the handle and triggers that sprang up from the centre of the floorboard. Eliza would know what to do with those.

  “What! The! Hell?!” Bill might have been laughing.

  “Tumble seat,” Eliza scoffed as she took hold of the stick. “Clever boy, Welly.”

  Wellington threw the accelerator forwards as the call of a Gatling roared in his ears. Yes, indeed, Eliza had figured it out.

  The car ahead had reached the airship’s ramp. Above the sounds of his own motorcar, Eliza’s Gatling, and the car behind bursting into flames, Wellington could just make out the thrum of the airship’s engines spinning up for a quick ascent.

  “Wellington,” Felicity called, “we’re going to miss our flight!”

  There was just enough time. “No we’re not.”

  He pushed the red button by his left foot again, and their car jumped forwards. He heard a commotion behind him from the tumble seat and hoped he hadn’t lost Eliza and Bill.

  The airship’s ramp could not retract fast enough to keep their motorcar from boarding. He had some room to manoeuvre in this massive landing bay, which he did as soldiers in uniforms he did not recognise took positions to make a stand. They were, however, outgunned as Eliza brought the Gatling around, mowing down any opposition present. Any fortunate enough to avoid Eliza’s Gatling found misfortune from Bill’s Peacemakers.

  Wellington powered down the motorcar, and took a deep breath as the echoes from gunfire faded into nothing.

  “So, Eliza,” he asked her, “your thoughts?”

  “I love this sodding car!”

  He nodded, “Thought so.”

  “All righty then,” Bill said, jumping out of the tumble seat, “any ideas who this monster belongs to?” he asked motioning to the airship around them.

  “Not a clue.” Wellington looked at the whole of the landing bay. “No flags. No markings. A pirate ship, perhaps?”

  “Since when do pirates wear uniforms?” Eliza asked, motioning to a pair of fallen soldiers. “Felicity, have you on record—”

  “A moment, if you please.”

  Felicity was sitting stock still in the motorcar. Wellington was not sure if she was going to burst into tears, scream in terror, or simply succumb to vapours. She took a deep breath, so deep her delicate frame seemed to shudder, and then Felicity let her breath out easily and slowly.

  Wellington looked to Bill for some kind of insight. He shrugged.

  “Forgive me. Loud noises,” she said. “No, Agent Braun, we have no such member in our Rogue’s Gallery that insists his minions follow this particular dress code. Anything else?”

  Eliza did not seem moved at all. “No, but if something comes up, I’ll ask.”

  “Right then,” Wellington said. “What now?”

  “Control room?” Eliza asked, holding up her pounamu pistols.

  “I’m in,” Bill said, pumping the action of his modified rifle.

  Wellington turned slowly to Felicity, who was, once again, loosing that cold stare on him. “Felicity, I have a charge to ask of you.” She crooked an eyebrow at him, but Wellington held his hands up in defence. “I need water.”

  “Water?” she asked.

  “Yes, water. For the motorcar. Without it, we’re going to have a problem in making an escape that doesn’t involve us plummeting to our death.”

  “Ah,” she replied with a light nod. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

  “Very well then,” Eliza said brightly, returning to the motorcar, “let’s go save San Francisco.”

  From the floor of the tumble seat, Eliza produced a pair of fine, polished wooden cases. The smaller one revealed the Brouhaha. Wellington stopped Eliza as she held it up in her hand. “Are you sure about this thing?”

  “Considering Arizona,” she began, motioning to the other case, “I think you should share the same faith in Axelrod and Blackwell as I presently do.”

  Wellington looked into the case to see the Jack Frost resting securely in its cushion of crushed velvet; two full vials of its mysterious coolant were nested in velvet next to it.

  “Fair enough,” he said, lifting the weapon with one hand while taking its holster from Eliza with the other.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Wherein Our Agents of Derring-Do Find the Balance of Power a Delicate One Indeed

  The three of them began their ascent to the bridge of this massive airship, the constant rumble of the engineering section nothing less than unnerving. They would not hear any oncoming personnel; and with limited lighting, sightlines were impossible to ascertain. Wellington suddenly felt this deep-seated loathing. For airships. What was it about creeping through enemy airships? Was this something that field agents did often? Once was more than enough for him.

  He looked over his shoulder at Eliza, who shrugged. “You know how I hate repeating myself?” she whispered, as if reading his mind. “Welcome to the life of a field agent.”

  Bill signalled them to step back as a pair of guards, again in the enigmatic uniforms no one seemed to recognise, walked by, weapons drawn.

  One of them commented, “Do you know what’s going on?”

  The other shook his head as they passed where the agents were hidden. “Probably another drill.”

  Once they were safely out of sight, Wellington, Bill, and Eliza continued deeper into the gondola until they reached a door. Eliza nodded to Bill, and they slipped out of the dim engineering section into a well-lit hallway.

  Actually, it was a rather smart, pristine hallway that again reminded Wellington of the luxury he was introduced to on Apollo’s Chariot.

  A thought raced through Wellington’s mind as they walked through the narrow, sile
nt hallway: What if Edison was not here? What if he had convinced the House of Usher that, on account of their discovery, it would have been better not to proceed? This meant that the technology and application behind the world’s most devastating weapon was now underground and there would be no way for either the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences or the Office of the Supernatural and Metaphysical to stop him until after he struck, until after there had been more deaths.

  Then he recalled the man he had met in the Carolinas. This was Edison’s opportunity not only to provide the House of Usher with a final display of awe and power but also to eliminate any additional competition in the field of invention and practical sciences.

  Edison was here. He knew it.

  Bill put a finger to his lips. Just ahead, there were footsteps and voices, coming closer. Bill placed a hand on the door in front of him. Locked. The one behind them was also locked. The last door, however, opened without fail. He motioned with his head for everyone to go in. Wellington hoped this apparent passenger’s quarters would be empty.

  What he saw he was hardly prepared for.

  The room itself wasn’t a room but a giant chamber with a smaller chamber inside it. A room within a room.

  “What the hell is this?” Bill asked quietly.

  Eliza approached the solitary door and dared its doorknob, which turned freely in her hand. Bill gave her a curt nod. The door slowly creaked open, revealing absolute darkness. There was no outside light whatsoever from their antechamber leaking into this room. Bill slowly stepped forwards as Eliza reached into the room, and then seconds later gaslight illuminated the room.

  Wellington furrowed his brow as his head slowly tipped to one side. “Well now, this is something you don’t see every day, now is it?”

  The room was an impressive replica of a first-class train compartment: a delightful parlour connecting to an adjoining room that was reserved for sleeping purposes. Out of the windows there appeared a countryside, painted in an incredible detailed fashion. There were details showing signs of occupation. A recent newspaper from London. A glass of water, nearly finished.

  “Now I’m not normally a man who would admit something like this,” Bill said from the parlour, “but you’re way smarter than me, Books, when it comes to certain things. And I’m looking around, thinkin’ this is one of ’em certain things.”

  “Bill, your guess—”

  Both of them started as the parlour and bedroom began trembling, swaying back and forth as if . . .

  Outside the window, the landscape was now in motion, passing by the window in a blur. Before Wellington could ask Bill for an opinion, he heard it—the sound of a steam train, just loud enough to drown out the drone of the airship’s engines.

  “Oh, this is clever,” Eliza said, entering the parlour. “They really are going for the whole experience, aren’t they?”

  When neither of them answered her, Eliza smiled and beckoned them to follow her. Once back in the antechamber, Wellington could see the entire mock-up was shaking on some apparatus built underneath it. Both he and Bill followed Eliza to a large phonograph that was playing an abnormally large cylinder. When Eliza removed the needle, the unseen apparatus deactivated.

  “How much would you care to wager the scenery outside the windows is painted on a conveyor belt?”

  “Ten pounds?” Wellington asked hopefully.

  Eliza pursed her lips. “Nice try.”

  “So what’s all this for then?” Bill asked. “For people who aren’t keen on flyin’?”

  “Perhaps we should table this mystery for another time? I believe we were heading for the bridge.”

  Bill crept up to the closest door, opened it a crack, and gave a nod to Wellington and Eliza. The three crept around the hallway, and they continued their way up to the stairwell. The stairs led up to a deck similar to the one they had just left. Wellington wanted to check and see if there was another illusion behind one of these doors. Perhaps another train journey across a countryside, or maybe a simulated airship journey over Paris or Frankfurt? Instead, they pressed on towards what they hoped was the bridge.

  This landing led to a single door, presumably to whatever remained forwards.

  “We’re not high enough for this to be a bridge,” Wellington whispered. He pressed his ear to the door. “There are voices on the other side. Hard to say how many. What do you think this room could be?”

  The seasoned field agents both shrugged. “Control room.”

  He looked back and forth between them. “You both sound confident.”

  “After your fair share of mad scientists,” Bill said, “you notice a theme.”

  “So how do we play this?”

  “We are the least of their worries, apparently,” Eliza said, motioning to the door. “Control room or not, this is an access point and there should be a guard here.”

  “That actually gives me pause, Eliza,” Wellington said. “It means either Edison is far more arrogant than we believe, or—”

  “We’re expected.” Eliza reached into a small pouch hanging off her belt. “Ready, Bill?” She sent the coin spinning upward. “Call it!”

  Bill watched the coin intently as it reached an apex. “Heads.”

  Eliza pulled out her pounamu pistols and kicked open the door.

  “Or we can just barge in with guns blazing,” Wellington grumbled as the coin bounced against the floor. “Right then, mind if I borrow a Winchester?”

  Bill tossed it to him. “Right behind you, Johnny Shakespeare.”

  He had only just shouldered the rifle when a Pinkerton appeared with his gun drawn. Wellington’s shell knocked him back, giving him a moment to join Eliza sheltered behind a vacant control panel.

  “Quite a large control room, don’t you think?” Wellington asked.

  “Bit larger than I had hoped for.”

  A hard, grating yell erupted from the stairwell as Bill came in firing round after round from his Peacemakers. He managed to get all the way across the room before return fire drove him to his own shelter.

  “Awful place you find yourselves,” a voice spoke. Wellington was certain that was Gantry. “Pinned.”

  Bill looked over to Eliza, flashed two fingers, and pointed quickly in opposite directions. “Can’t see that I’m too worried,” he shouted from his hiding place, “seein’ as you’re not gettin’ a lot of help from your boys in grey.”

  “I would hardly call those men reinforcements,” chortled a voice Wellington immediately recognised. Edison wasn’t mad nor was he deranged. Wellington could hear it in his voice. This was all part of his strategy for today’s business. “My Pinks were sent to slow you down. Which they did. Adequately.”

  “Welly,” Eliza whispered. “You will need to preoccupy Edison while Bill and I move into position.”

  “Time to maximum charge?” he heard Edison ask.

  “Ten minutes,” someone replied.

  Eliza crawled low, away from their hiding place to another terminal. Wellington looked over to Bill, who was also attempting the same kind of flanking manoeuvre. Wellington took in a deep breath and checked the rifle as best as he could under cover. Wellington could see by the lights on the Winchester that he had three rounds left. All he needed to do was keep Edison and the Usher henchmen busy while Eliza and Bill reached their positions.

  He pumped the stock in his grasp as he emerged from his hiding place. “I must ask that you stand down, Professor Edison.”

  His rifle switched from soldier to soldier, a variety of pistols and rifles now pointing in his direction. Silently, he took stock of the control room: two Usher henchmen, two guards dressed in the military greys of those they met in the aft bay, a sole technician, inventor Thomas Edison, and Elias Gantry of the House of Usher.

  “You?” Edison said, his eyes wide with surprise. “I thought that present I’d left you back
in Flagstaff would have ended this cat-and-mouse game.”

  “What?” Gantry spluttered. “I told you we would handle the archivist our way. The death ray was supposed to be your business. Books was supposed to be ours.”

  “The moment he meddled with our affairs in Currituck, he became my business,” Edison replied, his eyes fixed on Wellington in a manner that Wellington found less than pleasurable. “You understand, Mr. Books, that this is a business. Nothing personal?”

  “Likewise, I hope you understand,” Wellington answered, splaying his fingers along the Winchester, “that stopping you is merely business for me as well.”

  “Books,” Gantry said, “I can see three greens on your Winchester.” He motioned to the guns around him. “There are four bullets trained on you, and I can make it five.”

  “And you know all too well what I am capable of,” Wellington hissed. “So who cares to volunteer themselves?”

  The two soldiers guffawed, but went silent as the two Usher men lowered their weapons.

  “By the Order of Her Majes—” Hold on, he wasn’t here in that sort of capacity. He would have to word this delicately. Wellington cleared his throat and proclaimed, “On behalf of your United States President Grover Cleveland, serving the interests of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, I order you to power down your death ray and step free of the controls.”

  Dammit, it seemed as if Bill and Eliza were taking their bloody time getting into a flanking position!

  “Hold the countdown,” a voice—a strange voice that sounded airy, metallic, and cold—ordered from behind Edison and Gantry. “Keep the generators powered up, but hold the firing until my mark.”

  The two men parted to grant room for what Wellington swore, upon first glance, was the ghost who had haunted him for so long. He nearly fired before the creature could enact its revenge for his transgressions, but he hesitated. Whoever or whatever the man-machine was, Wellington could not be completely convinced it was human. One arm was encased in a massive boiler, the metal limb ending not in a hand but in a Gatling gun similar in size to the one he used on his motorcar. It was seated in what appeared to be a throne constructed of tubes, wires, boilers, and pistons that pumped life into the chair. This throne, like the tank he had destroyed outside, was rolling on treads, but he could see legs dressed in a fine pinstripe pattern that did not appear frail or weak. Half the man’s body was visible, and adorned with dark furs and folds of a cloak that seemed to blend with the mechanical throne he rode. His jaw rested in a shiny brass encasement while his eyes were hidden behind darkened lenses. Topping this bizarre, macabre sight was a gentleman’s top hat from which underneath it, dark raven’s hair flowed like an ebony curtain down his shoulders, losing itself in the texture of his furs.