Shadows Against the Empire (Folkestone & Hand Interplanetary Steampunk Adventures Book 1)

by Ralph Vaughan

  “Is there a significance to the colours?”

  Hand nodded distractedly. “Yeah, but the meanings don’t quite jibe with what you’ve always…” Hand sighed. “Anyway, it’s been a donkey’s years since I went to temple catechisms as a nipper so I doubt I could really do it justice. Anyway, some are so vague and confusing even the priests do not like going into it.”

  “Are they all equal?” the secretary asked. “Or is there some sort of a hierarchy among them?”

  “Only in their own eyes, mate, some seats being older than others or broken off in the past,” Hand explained.

  “But they work together to administrate Mars?”

  Hand chuckled. “More now than they did before the colonial powers arrived on Mars. Constant warfare. Endless raids and counting coup. Pretty exciting times.”

  “So, all that ended when Earth brought civilisation to Mars,” Argent surmised, then recalled to whom he was speaking. “I am terribly sorry, old man, I did not mean to imply…”

  “No, that’s all right, mate,” Hand assured him. “Hmm, did it end?” He moved his head back and forth as if weighing a knotty problem. “Let’s just say that you Earthers – no offence intended…”

  “Non taken.”

  “…that you Earthers took honest combat and made it even more brutal,” Hand continued, “with all sorts of intrigue, mendacity and subterfuge. Many’s the Martian who’s carped that Earthers took the swords out of our hands and put them into our backs.”

  “Well, I have heard Martian politics is…uh…quite complex, almost Byzantine…a little bloody, which, of course…” Argent stammered. “So, how do the Princes get to be Princes?”

  “The temple johnnies of whatever god or goddess is big in a region goes out through the various villages,” Hand explained. “The priests ask questions, administer tests, look for signs and portents, that sort of thing, looking for the spiritual embodiment of the last Prince, not that very many of them are really all that spiritual, if you take my meaning.”

  “Sounds like what those chaps in Tibet do when looking for the next Dali Lama,” Argent offered.

  “Oh, I suppose so,” Hand replied, suddenly disinterested in the subject. “I don’t really hold with it anymore; I’m C-of-E myself, converted when I enlisted, but I guess it’s as good a way as finding a leader as any. ‘Sides, it’s tradition, and people need the stability of traditions to keep them together as a people, even if they don’t really believe in it no more.”

  “I see.” Argent said, though he did not really expect he did.

  Hand let drop the copy of the transit orders he had picked up from the desk and wandered over to a river-facing window. The hidden sun was setting, and a sombre twilight of golds and purples was again settling on the cities facing each other across the river. Flickering gaslamps emerged in the dusk, both in Port Victoria and in the centuries older Yzankranda. Rising river mist obscured the fleet of Venusian schooners back at berth for the long night from trading at remote ports, villages of far-flung humanoids or among the savage Nagas, or from fishing for monsters of the deeps. Somewhere among the points of light along the waterfront was a smoky Venusian tavern where he had drunk the best segir ever for the last time.

  Argent looked up and set down his fountain pen. “Things are still buzzing, you know, from your escapade the other night.”

  “Yeah, I expect so,” Hand murmured, not turning from the window. “Hope it didn’t cause you too much grief.”

  “No, not much,” Argent replied. “The native government, such as it is, is always up in arms about some thing or another. This time, however, their complaints were muted for a change. You seem to have stumbled upon one of their dirty little secrets.”

  Hand turned from the window. He knew that for awhile after returning to Port Victoria he was a bit funny in the head from the lingering effects of the dream-spice, but he was absolutely sure he had held to himself all he had learned from Aythaneshia, had kept all her secrets safe.

  “That dream-spice den,” Argent explained. “The Venusians are supposed to have phased those filthy places out of existence, but we know they haven’t, just as they know we know they haven’t, but the balance is maintained as long as they keep it quiet. Trying to kill one of Her Majesty’s subjects is not keeping it quiet. Since Her Majesty’s government frowns on murder, it was a good excuse to exercise our authority, to clean out not only that den, but to search out and destroy others we suspected, and well as some production facilities.”

  Hand sighed, relieved.

  “That is why the Venusians are not raising a ruckus about that other thing…”

  Hand nodded, but made no comment.

  Argent gazed at Hand a few moments, then picked up his fountain pen. “I should be through with these letters and orders within an hour. As I mentioned earlier, you can always pick them up later this evening, or I could have them delivered by one of the district messengers.”

  “No, I do not mind waiting; take your time,” Hand told him. “I like the quiet here.”

  “Very well,” Argent sighed, returning to his tasks.

  For several long minutes, Hand stared out the window, until it became so dark he saw only mist-wreathed lights against the reflection of the room behind him. The only sound was the soft and rhythmic scratching of the nib of the pen against parchment.

  He needed a measure of silence, Hand thought.

  Hand seated himself in a green-upholstered club chair and slouched, arms crossed and his chin nearly touching his chest. His eyes drooped, but did not close. Since returning from Yzankranda he had not slept, nor did he want to, fearing what dreams might come from out of the darkness.

  Waking or sleeping, though, he well remembered the visions brought by the overdose of dream-spice, his mind propelled to the edges of probability while his clockwork heart ticked on, unaffected by the drug.

  Venus as a hellish desert bereft of life…

  A world where the British Empire never was…

  Bombs that caused whole cities to sprout like fiery mushrooms…

  Mars lifeless…

  The Solar System ruled by the Dark Gods…

  Were the visions of the past or the future, or were they of endless todays, each as valid as the present in which they lived? Even the psycho-johnnies listening intently and taking notes could not answer that one. Or claimed they could not. And what would they make of the dark areas in his memory, if he had told them?

  It did not matter now, he reflected, and had mattered even less then, when he could still feel the warmth of her body against his arms though they had taken her away.

  He had answered all their questions, recited his experiences in detail. Very excited they had been, seeing as it was so rare to get anyone still alive after such a massive overdose. Since they had no reason to know about his clockwork heart, he suspected they were in such a rush to get their information because they were afraid he might kick off at any moment.

  He knew Aythaneshia was dead before the doctor had come out with his downcast face, put a solid hand upon the Martian’s shoulder and sadly shook his head.

  “I am sorry, Sergeant,” he had said.

  Hand muttered something he did not recall.

  “There was nothing I could do, and I tried everything.” He shook his head disgustedly. “But, blast it all! Despite all I did, all I tried, she just…slipped away, and damned if I know why.”

  Hand knew, but he kept his words to himself, honouring a promise made. All the years of breathing the fumes of smouldering dream-spice, of handling the raw crystals, of being trained to journey through visions, had somehow tied her to that monstrously ancient city across the river. She knew at the last that fleeing its dark precincts was a sure death, and yet her last wish was to flee anyway…with him.

  The sigh that escaped Hand’s lips at the moment was mixed with a plaintive sob.

  The pen scratching against the parchment paused a moment, then rushed on, writing faster.

  H
and had known about the raids before Argent had told him, courtesy of Captain Folkestone, who had participated in them while Hand lay in hospital struggling back to reality. But he also knew much more.

  “We found Sabu,” Folkestone had said.

  “Good, ‘cause I got a few…” Hand said as he tried to climb from under the covers.

  “Stay where you are, Sergeant,” Folkestone advised, gently pushing his friend back to the bed. “Somebody already took care of the little blighter, shoved a dagger, hilt-deep into his throat.”

  “Good,” Hand breathed as he settled back.

  “Yes, well, we should have liked to question him before sending him to his well-deserved reward,” Folkestone said.

  “Dagger?” Hand asked. “What kind of dagger?”

  “Venusian.”

  “Yizak.”

  “From what you told us, quite possibly,” Folkestone said. “Or another Venusian in on the plot.”

  “Then…”

  “It seems the powers-that-be experienced something of an epiphany while we faced death in the upland jungles,” Folkestone explained. “There have been many other incidents on Mars since we left, Baphor-Ta has delivered a slew of information to the Red Prince and the priests, all of which went straight to the Admiralty, but, more importantly, there have been incidents on Earth, in the heart of the capital, that tie in directly to the plot. The boys in Scotland Yard, the Intelligence Service and the Foreign Office are now trying to play catch-up with the Admiralty.”

  Hand sighed, “So the Admiral no longer thinks us barmy?”

  Folkestone smiled. “Well, I don’t know that I would go as far as to say that, but they no longer think we hallucinated what happened in Cydonia.”

  “That’s something, I suppose,” Hand said. “How is Her Majesty’s Government coping with the concept of the banished Dark Gods trying to return to our dimension so they can usher in an era of blood and death.”

  “About as well as you would expect,” Folkestone replied with a wide grin.

  “So, how do they…”

  “Religious extremists, anarchists, an evil mastermind intent on destroying civilisation as we know it,” Folkestone said. “The usual thing. As to shooting bolts of electricity from one’s hands, they are still working on that. Don’t worry about it, Sergeant – we’ll do what we must to save the Empire, in spite of itself.”

  Hand nodded, suddenly very tired.

  “You’ve been told about…”

  “Yes, while you were out having fun without me.”

  “I’m terribly sorry about the girl,” Folkestone said.

  “Yeah, me too, Captain, but…”

  “What is it, Sergeant?”

  “Aythaneshia knew she was going to die when she left the Old City, but she wanted to go with me anyway, and at the end, I knew it as well,” Hand said. “Did I do wrong, sir?”

  “Did you love her, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir, I did…I still do.”

  “Then you did the right thing, Sergeant Hand,” Folkestone replied, “and don’t let anyone tell you different.”

  Hand nodded.

  “Now, you get some rest,” the captain instructed. “Doctor says it’s a miracle you’re still alive – secretly, I think he’d like to do a vivisection to see why – but that you’ll be up and around in a few hours, which is good because we are returning to Mars in a couple of days, as soon as I collate some necessary documents.”

  Folkestone pressed Hand’s shoulder encouragingly, nodded, and left the sergeant to recuperate. Hand lay in the bed, weary unto death, and yet fearful to close his eyes.

  “That’s the lot of them, Sergeant Hand,” Geoffrey Argent said as he capped his fountain pen. “I’m sorry you had to be kept waiting so long, but…” He shrugged.

  “It’s all right, Mr Argent, I understand how fine those mills must grind, and how slowly,” Hand replied. “Anyway, think I got more rest here than in hospital, what with all those medicos poking and prodding and clucking ‘cause I happened not to die.”

  “I am not privy to all the circumstances, Sergeant,” said the secretary, “but from what I heard, it is rather amazing that you are not dead. We get about a half-dozen overdoses per year, so if it had not played out for you as it did, and you had been found cold on the cobbles, you would likely have been written off as just another fool tourist who went a bit too far into darkness.”

  Hand received the travel and diplomatic documents the Consul’s secretary had laboured over, looking through them without comment. They all seemed to be in order, but he doubted he would know if they were not. Though he would follow Captain Folkestone anywhere in the Solar System, and would face whatever danger necessary in service to Her Britannic Majesty Queen Victoria, there were often times he yearned for the simple life of a soldier, carrying out his orders and facing enemies he could understand. After a moment, he realised Argent had said something to him.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I just wished you a safe journey,” Argent said.

  “Sorry, mate, I was a bit distracted.” He slipped the papers , along with the transit orders, into a despatch box. “Don’t even know why I was going through them…force of habit, I suppose.”

  “I am sorry your visit to Venus was so unpleasant for you.”

  “Oh, I would not say unpleasant.”

  Argent’s eyes widened a bit in surprise. “Really? Banished to the upland jungles in the torrid season, attacked by savage reptilian cultists, battered by ruffians, and nearly assassinated by an overdose of dream-spice…not unpleasant?”

  “Well, it was rough going at times,” Hand admitted. “But I did get the best segir I ever had. Anyway, thanks, chum, and look me up if you ever get to Mars.”

  As Hand was walking down the corridor, a stray memory snagged him, something only half noted when he absently fluttered through the documents. He squatted in the passageway, balanced the despatch box on his lap, opened the lid, and quickly thumbed through the documents until he found the one that had impressed itself upon his unconscious mind. He read it over, saw the name that had been penned in.

  He simultaneously groaned in dismay and smiled in delight. He quickly collated the papers and replaced them in the box. He walked as quickly as his battered body would allow. He could hardly wait to see the expression on Captain Folkestone’s face.

  He cornered the Captain in his quarters.

  “I think I would rather be facing those rampaging Nagas again,” Captain Robert Folkestone said with a slight groan after reading the document Sergeant Felix Hand forced upon him. “Is there perhaps another…”

  “No, sir,” Hand replied. “I already checked, sir. There is no other aethership leaving Venus sooner for Mars, and we dare not delay our departure till…”

  “I know, Sergeant, I know,” Folkestone sighed. “It seems we are stuck on the Princess of Mars…damned stupid name for a ship.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hand agreed.

  “I’ll ask the Consul to delay her,” Folkestone said. “He does owe me a favour, several in fact.”

  “That should do it, sir,” Hand agreed. “But if not?”

  “We will just make the best of it,” Folkestone said. “Keep a stiff upper lip and all that other rot scribblers put into those damned penny dreadfuls.”

  “I rather like the stories,” Hand said. “Diverting, they are.”

  “Well, I may borrow one to keep my mind diverted.”

  Hand smiled with evil mischief. “Some might say that Lady Cynthia Barrington-Welles is diverting in herself.”

  “The rest of us say she is a damned annoying woman!” the captain snapped.

  “Aye, sir, that she is,” Hand said, leering like a demented sand-monkey. “She surely is.”

  Hand fled for his life.

  * * *

  “Welcome aboard, Sergeant Hand, a pleasure to meet you,” greeted Captain Josiah Wax of the Princess of Mars as Hand stepped onto the bridge. “First time you’ve been on the bridg
e of an aethership?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hand replied, his gaze darting about in wonder as he took in the dizzying array of brass and crystal instrumentality. “I have made the request previously, but…”

  The old Captain with thick white mutton chops laughed. “We spacers can be an imperious lot. Personally, I like showing off my ship.”

  “Showing off, sir?”

  “Letting people see the old girl and what she can do,” he said. “The Princess of Mars may not be the prettiest belle at the ball, but I’d wager a pound to a penny that this cargo carrier can fly rings around the newer aether-liners. I may be an independent agent, but I still keep the Princess Bristol fashion.”

  “Captain Wax, I’ve been meaning to ask about the ship’s name,” Hand ventured, a bit hesitant about bringing up a subject that might end his welcome on the bridge.

  The aethership Captain laughed heartily. “Do not think you are the first person to ask about that, or will be the last. I know there are no princesses on Mars…I’m quite sure anyone with even a smattering of geography knows that.”

  “Then how…”

  “This aethership was constructed a couple of years ago at the Chicago Aethership Yards out on the Lake, with the repulsors and aether-engines coming in from Schenectady,” Wax explained. “The engineer in charge of the project was one Major George Burroughs. Since the aethership was being built on spec rather than at the behest of a line, it fell to the chief engineer to choose the official registry name.”

  “But why did he choose…”

  Captain Wax held up a silencing palm. “Old George has a young son who is a bit balmy on the crumpet about space travel, even though then a lad of five, always building aethership models and reading those shilling shockers that will rot your mind.”

  Hand thought of the stack of books in his own travel bag.

  “The lad pestered Major Burroughs to let him choose the name, and, well, you know how lads can be…” Wax continued.

  “And he chose Princess of Mars?”

  “Indeed he did.”

  “Did his father not try to talk sense into him?”