by C. B. Ash
Angela looked downcast, tears welling in her eyes. “They came in and started hurting people … I got mad … wanted to make them stop.” Overcome by emotion, stress, and the drug induced haze from the Hellgate elixir, Angela collapsed into a ball, huddled against the doorframe. Immediately, she began shivering as if terribly cold, then quietly she started sobbing as her inner resolve crumbled.
Quickly, Thorias grabbed a blanket within reach off the floor and draped it around the young girl and the tatters of her dress as, slowly, the elixir’s effects began to fade. Ever watchful, the doctor checked her eyes, clinically observing the dilation of the young girl’s pupils, then monitored her pulse and breathing. He shook his head in disbelief. “Angela? Listen to me. The elixir is wearing off, but it will be all right. You’ll feel cold and uncomfortable. That is normal. Just stay awake. Listen to my voice and stay awake.”
Angela closed her eyes as she shivered with teeth-chattering shakes as the doctor sat beside her. She nodded, then forced her eyelids open and replied, “yes … Doctor.” Dr. Llwellyn glanced past Angela to the Intrepid’s own ship’s doctor.
“Nothing fatal here, just some smart bruises and right ugly scratches,” the older man replied to Thorias’ unanswered question. “Looks like she’s coming off whatever she imbibed. See to the young lady and I’ll get some lads to help me patch this lot up.”
Thorias nodded in agreement, “very well. If you need an assist, let me know.”
“Naturally,” the Intrepid’s chief medical officer replied curtly.
While the two doctors spoke, Captain Hunter had stepped into the infirmary. Once he inside, the shock of the sight caused him to hesitate a step. The ship’s infirmary was normally a long room with enough space for a trio of bunks that folded up against the wall. A small desk, usually for the medical staff on duty, was towards the back of the room, set so that it would take as little space as possible. Along the walls, out of the way of the bunks, a series of cabinets meant to hold a well-ordered array of medicines were bolted into the wall.
The scene that greeted the captain was noticeably different. Of the three bunks, two were down, and only one still had an occupant: a bloody, battered sailor who, as best as Hunter could determine, was quite unconscious. The glass cabinet doors were shattered, with one door held by only one battered hinge. At the back, the small desk had been knocked about until broken in two from the abuse.
Anthony glanced around, and just as Angela had said, Tonks was nowhere to be seen. Neither were Peter Bauer or his associates – a thought that left Hunter rather uncomfortable, given what it had taken to capture them in the first place. Hunter filed that information away in the back of his mind, along with a list of questions as to why the attackers would abduct the Brass Griffin’s pilot. Even though Hunter did have some assumptions, he was not ready to entertain them just yet.
The captain stopped at the figure laying prone on one bunk. An ugly bruise decorated his forehead, along with a recently cut lip where he had been punched. Hunter’s medical knowledge was narrow at best, but he did check the man’s pulse, which was strong and steady despite the battering he had taken.
“One down in here Thorias,” Hunter called out, “looks to be one of the Intrepid’s surgeons, judging by uniform. I don’t see any of our people, or the Fomorians.”
“Right,” Dr. Llwellyn called back from the doorway, “be there soon. Making things stable out here at the moment. I’ll ask about Moira and the others. Quite likely they are elsewhere given the Fomorians were being held here. This area can accommodate only so many under lock and key.”
“Understood,” the captain replied. Then Anthony heard a grunt of pain, which led him to spot something at the far end of the room: a familiar pair of boots belonging to John Clark.
Chapter 34
Quickly crossing to the back of the room towards the broken desk, Anthony let out a sigh of relief as he heard a muttered curse from John Clark. Hunter’s solace drained out of him the moment he pushed the desk aside.
John was sitting on the floor, shirt torn, broken nose bandaged, and an eye already turning black from being freshly hit again. Blood welled from fresh cuts on his lip and cheekbone, staining his face. His skin was pale, but his eye bright and alert, despite the pain.
It was the device strapped to John's chest that captured Hunter's attention. The harness was a stout, double layer of leather; the kind used for a team of oxen. Attached to the harness was a pair of large gallon containers made from tempered glass, each packed with a damp, black powder. Wires were buried in the powder, running from there to brass stoppers at the top.
Above the stoppers, the wires continued upward, coiling into a narrow lead glass box bolted to the harness, housing both a wide chemical battery and a pocket watch. Both were surrounded by, and attached to, the wires from the gallon bottles below it.
Captain Hunter traced the wires further, uncovering a narrow brass tube nestled behind the lead glass box. It, too, had wires protruding from it, but nothing else gave any clue as to its purpose. From the quartet of containers, the copper wires continued into the harness itself, sandwiched between thick layers of leather.
Without a word, Hunter immediately started looking for the buckle to remove it. Black Jack stopped him.
"Oi, it's riddled with wires," John explained with cough, followed by a grimace of pain, "I've been diggin' about lookin' for a way to pluck 'em without makin' it go off. Not found it such yet. Didn't get a good look at it before they kicked the ten bells out of me and stuffed me in this. What is it?”
Antony scrutinized the containers. "Its an explosive, most likely dynamite, though how they got it aboard is beyond me. I'd advise against excessive moving about, or sudden motions." The captain continued to study the device, "where are the others that were brought here? My crew? The wounded Fomorians?”
Clark winced as he slowly shifted position, “Gone. Your crew was moved to another location some time back. Seems your Scottish quartermaster and the Fomorians were developing a habit of fist-fightin’ every few minutes. The doctor here ‘bout went balmy trying to keep ’em separated, so he fixed the problem by putting them somewhere else and keepin’ the Fomorians here.”
That sounded like O’Fallon, Hunter thought with a smirk. “Yet he left Angela, my pilot and yourself here?” the captain replied, tapping the lead glass container which held the pocket watch. Hunter scowled at the device. He deduced the wires were primarily a trigger, as well as a trap to prevent tampering. The presence of the pocket watch baffled him.
John coughed, then winced in pain again. “Bugger that hurts! I think a rib’s cracked. The young miss, that one crew of yours the girl called ‘Tonks', and myself were here to be kept close under your doctor’s orders. He’s got himself a right fine laboratory next door, workin’ on some way to combat that Fomorian elixir. Especially since the young lady come down sick with some of it at some point. Poor girl. For me, I think Thorias wanted me sparkling conversation,” Clark said with a pain-wracked grin.
“Oh, naturally,” Hunter replied, carefully testing the connection of the wires to the jar which held the chemical battery and pocket watch. “Your wit and charm are just mesmerizing."
John ignored the remark, “As I was elucidatin’, a gang of them knobbers took all their mates out of here, right along with that Tonks of yours. Didn’t go quiet, though. Your young miss over there, she’s quite the fighter. Bloodied more’n one of them.”
Captain Hunter took that in silently while he continued his inspection of the bomb strapped to John Clark’s chest. Anthony glanced around, then searched the wreckage of the desk next to them. He eventually discovered a set of scalpels and a clockwork spider that bristled with tiny forceps. The captain scooped up the spider first.
Hunter recognized it from something similar Thorias had aboard the Griffin. It was an Autonoma Arachnae Extractor, an ingenious little device that once set, was often used to perform sensitive and minute operations such as very tiny stit
ches or extractions of broken needles. He only hoped wire extraction was not too far afield for it.
Clark eyed the device skeptically, “a Seamstress Spider? I heard they got a tick where they’ll start sewin’ and forget to stop.”
“It’s a clockwork device, it doesn’t ‘forget’,” Hunter said as he turned the appropriate tiny keys on the palm sized brass spider’s back. “However, I’m not wanting it to sew, I want it to extract.” A moment later, the captain smiled in satisfaction. “Like pulling out a needle,” he explained, “only the ‘needle’ is a wire.”
Hunter placed the spider atop the lead glass case near one of the larger lead wires. Immediately, the spider scurried over and proceeded to carefully tug at the wire, slowly pulling it from the housing. The captain smiled, “ah, there we go.”
Abruptly, sparks flew from the small brass spider, followed by a small tendril of smoke. In the blink of an eye, it released the wire and had promptly sewed four inches of John’s shirt to the harness before Captain Hunter slapped the mechanical device away, smashing it against the wall. The Seamstress Spider fell to the floor with a heavy metal clunk where it sparked once more, then lay still.
“Not a word, not one word,” Hunter warned Black Jack as he selected one of the scalpels, then set to work seeing if he could cut the leather straps away.
“Who were they John? Were they Fomorians?” The captain asked while he worked, although he suspected he already knew the answer.
"None other," John replied. “Oh, they looked the part, mind you. All decked out in proper Navy attire, but they be no more Intrepid crew than I go about wearin' a pink petticoat. Two of them knobbers had shipped with the Revenge for a season, afore they shipped out elsewhere. They knew your doctor had fashioned the real elixir. They were here looking for it, but your young girl drank the only real sample made.”
“Which resulted in her current condition,” Hunter added.
John coughed, winced, then nodded. “Somethin’ they didn’t expect, I’ll tell you that. At the end of it, they didn’t lay hands on the translation either, or that monkey. The lot left here mad as a bag of ferrets when they didn’t find what they wanted. That monkey servitor took off down the corridor, probably got itself good and lost."
Hunter grunted sourly in reply as he cut away part of the first strap, only to discover cutting the remainder would break one of the wires. This, in turn, would cause a break in the mild current running through the harness, sending it instead into a sealed brass tube that hummed with the sound of clockwork gears turning steadily inside.
The captain tugged at a wire, thinking to disconnect it. Instantly, an electric shock jolted through John Clark, sending the man into a harsh bout of spams. Hunter immediately let go of the wire and shielded his face from the stray electricity, looking around for something with which to douse the power. As quickly as it started, the jolt of power stopped, leaving a smoldering John Clark gasping for air.
“Whate’er you did?” John wheezed, “I don’t think that was the right wire to tug.”
“Sorry for that,” Hunter apologized, “it’s a touch more complicated than it looks.” The captain rubbed sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Any luck where I can’t reach?" John asked with a slow, deep breath, “someplace that won’t cook me?”
"Not a whit," Anthony replied, “I don’t understand why they just didn’t shoot you where you stood, instead of using this overly complicated … thing. Blood and sand! I need Moira, she'd bend this to her will in short order. John, don't move about any."
John grunted with a painful grin, "not bloody likely. I’m a bit done with takin’ risks. Someone else can have a go at it.”
Anthony smirked, “good man. I’m trusting your son has sent word to let the rest of my crew loose, as we’re obviously not a threat. Back in a moment with proper help, or at least better tools I can work with. Trust me, I’ll be back straightaway.”
“No worries, mate,” Black Jack replied, though his face showed a far greater amount of worry than his voice portrayed, “I trust you.”
The captain set the scalpel aside so that John would not accidentally cut himself if he encountered it, then shouted towards the door. “Doctor! Is Captain Clark at hand?”
Silence was his only answer from the hallway. Hunter frowned. “Thorias?” Still no answer. A cold chill ran along Anthony’s spine.
“Long overdue for anyone to come burstin’ in,” John admitted quietly.
Carefully, and without a word, Hunter palmed one of the scalpels before standing and facing the doorway. Thorias was gone, as was Angela from what he could see. His mind screamed an alarm. Angela was suffering the ill-effects of that Hellgate Elixir. She should have been in no condition to go running about. Likewise, Thorias would not have let her, nor would he have left her side.
However, from his vantage point, the corridor was empty. No wounded, no doctors, no Angela. Only a telltale sign of bloodstains remained. A crawling uneasiness clawed at the back of his mind.
Slowly, the captain approached the open doorway, then heard a telltale metal click. He stopped, putting his back against the wall so that the doorframe could provide some protection. The captain peered around the edge, desperate for the feel of his absent revolver, which probably lay under lock and key in the Intrepid's weapon locker.
Hunter took a slow breath, then stepped through the doorway. Once he crossed the threshold and into the corridor beyond, he found himself staring into the dark barrel of a Colt single action revolver aimed at his chest by one Senior Lieutenant Johnson!
The sailors from before were now on their knees, rifles no longer in their hands. Captain Thomas Clark – now sporting a vile bruise around his right eye, skinned knuckles and a cut lip – was already being bound by two men dressed as Intrepid seamen.
Across the hall from Clark, Thorias stood protectively in front of Angela with his fists clenched. Angela herself was back in human form and huddled in a wool blanket, shivering uncontrollably and looking terrified.
“Good to have you join us, Captain Hunter,” Johnson said with a smug smile. Hunter frowned slightly, noticing that Lieutenant Johnson’s mannerisms had changed, as had his pronunciation, which now held a touch of a Liverpool accent to it.
Johnson shrugged slightly, “I really don’t think we’ll be needing that map I was sent to fetch. You see, there’s been a change in plans.” The lieutenant’s smile grew, “I think we can drop the pretense, eh? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Edmond Hardy. And you and your crew, Sir, have been a right proper pain the arse.”
“We try,” Hunter replied with a small, curt bow.
Chapter 35
Footsteps echoed dully on the upper decks as crewmen raced for their duty stations in response to the general alarm echoing off the walls. Standing just outside one of the Intrepid's auxiliary infirmaries, Captain Hunter watched as the tall, thin man standing a few feet away in the corridor – a man Hunter had thought was one Senior Lieutenant Johnson – gestured with a revolver.
“Please, Captain, this way,” Dr. Edmond Hardy said with a self-satisfied hum to his voice, “join us in the corridor. I do believe I would prefer you and your doctor where I can see you both at the same time.”
Hunter's expression was both congenial, yet cold as he gave the man a thin smile. It was the kind of bitter smile he usually reserved for eating something sour, or dealing with something distinctly unpleasant.
"I respectfully decline," the captain replied curtly. "I believe you can see us quite fine from where you stand, Sirrah.”
Dr. Hardy nodded politely, then promptly turned and squeezed the trigger of his revolver. The weapon roared, stabbing flame at a bound and kneeling seaman nearby. Across the corridor, Angela blurted out a scream from where she lay, huddled beneath her wool blanket.
The sailor abruptly jerked from the impact of the bullet, flying backwards to slam against the wall. Eyes wide, he was dead before he collapsed to the floor, blood qu
ickly staining the front of his uniform a deep crimson.
“Bastard!” Dr. Llwellyn shouted as he rushed to his feet and lunged forward. Two sailors, who had just finished tying Captain Clark’s hands together, rushed into the elven doctor’s path, dragging him away from the dead man. Thorias struggled in their grasp until they threw him against the wall next to a terrified Angela, now wide-eyed with shock.
“Sit down, doctor,” Dr. Hardy replied coolly, “I’ll let you know if I wish to collaborate.”
Thorias stifled a groan as he crashed to the floor. Terrified, hands shaking from fear and the withdrawal of the toxin, Angela scurried over to Dr. Llwellyn in concern.
“I’m fine, Angela,” Thorias lied with a painful smile, “don’t worry about me.”
Thomas Clark moved at that moment, as did Captain Hunter. Captain Clark, despite his hands being bound, lowered his shoulder to ram into Dr. Hardy. However, he took no more than two steps before one of the Fomorians, disguised as one of the Intrepid's crew, shoved him aside. Two of the real Intrepid's seaman started to rise, but stopped when the Fomorian sailors turned on them, ready.
Just as Clark bounced off the ship’s wall, Hardy turned, swiftly pointing the revolver at Anthony’s chest. The doctor narrowed his eyes, as if taking a careful measure of the man, much as a scientist would examine a caged, wild animal without giving any thought to the immediate danger the animal actually presented.
“How very wasteful of you, Captain,” Dr. Hardy said with a smug arrogance. “You cost the Royal Navy a sailor,” he shook his head with a mock sadness, “he might have grown to do … oh, something of moderate importance. Though likely he would have been a destitute drunkard, so perhaps I should commend you instead.” The doctor said as he inclined his head towards Hunter in a mock-bow and an impish smile, “good show, Captain!”