A faint sound came over all the aether-radios, one which would later be attributed to the vagaries of aether communication, part of the dim cacophony of pops, crackles, hisses, whines, and other less describable background sounds always present in the aether. At the time, however, most listeners thought it sounded very much like a groan of dismay.
Chapter 16
“Are you sure you are quite all right, Sergeant Hand?” Lady Cynthia asked as their steam-powered Bentley Zephyr shot through London’s densely trafficked streets.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Folkestone said from the other side of the Martian. “You do look a little…well, green.”
“Oh, no, I am fine, ma’am…sir, it’s just…” He fluttered a pale hand before his half-closed eyes, quite regretful there had not been time for a quick trip to the loo. “Earth…atmosphere…gravity, and all that…been awhile…I’m fine…”
Lady Cynthia and Folkestone glanced at each other over the head of Sergeant Hand who sat between them on the rear seat of the Zephyr, and kept their thoughts to themselves.
In addition to their Ministry driver, they were accompanied by a man from Scotland Yard’s Special Branch, who introduced himself as Inspector Kirby, and a thin man from the Intelligence Service’s Section 6, who did not introduce himself at all. From the bulges in their coats, the men were obviously armed, an unusual measure in the Capital.
“We should be at Whitehall within ten minutes,” Inspector Kirby informed his passengers.
The driver abruptly swerved left to pass a doddering Rolls, then pulled even more violently right to avoid a wide steam-lorry. The occupants of the Bentley were hurtled one way, then the other.
Sergeant Hand groaned softly.
“Perhaps four or five minutes,” Inspector Kirby amended.
The Section 6 man paid no attention to anyone in the vehicle and barely seemed to notice the motor’s wild gyrations. His dark gaze swept back and forth, always conscious of other steamers, pedestrians and the upper storeys of buildings along their route.
Folkestone had to admit to a certain amount of distraction, a vague sense of unreality in their situation, rushing to a meeting in the heart of the most populous city in the Solar System while the gears of conspiracy moved about them, like the clockwork of an infernal device counting down to zero. He realised Hand had said something, and he looked at the Martian inquisitively.
“I asked, sir, if it is really necessary I attend this meeting of yours,” Sergeant Hand said. “I mean, your own knowledge, those dispatch cases, reports from Baphor-Ta and others…well, sir, the big-hats surely don’t need anything from the likes of me.”
“Of the contrary,” Captain Folkestone said. “I was instructed specifically that your attendance is mandatory.”
Hand looked doubtful.
“No, the Captain is quite correct, Sergeant,” Lady Cynthia confirmed. From what I have learned, dream…” She looked about, then leaned toward the Martian and lowered her voice. “…dream-spice seems to play a major role in this conspiracy against the Empire. As the only man who has ever survived such a massive dose of the drug, they are quite eager to hear what you have to say.”
Hand sighed and nodded abstractly. He would tell the big-hats whatever they needed to know because it was his duty to do so, and if nothing else, he was a man who always knew his duty. But not all that happened that dreadful morning…not all.
The Zephyr abruptly zagged to avoid a figure rushing into the thoroughfare. The Intelligence chap shoved his body half out the window as he pulled a huge Webley Automatic from his shoulder holster and took aim at the figure in the road.
“Down!” Inspector Kirby shouted at the passengers; then to the imperturbable driver: “Faster, Mickey, blast those boilers!”
The driver leaned low over the steering wheel and flipped a hidden lever that loosed a quantity of paraffin into a burn-ring and caused a flare of propulsive fire to leap from under the boot of the vehicle. The passengers were slammed back onto the rear seat squabs. They barely heard the reports of the automatic as it quickly fired thrice.
As Captain Folkestone threw himself down he saw at the edge of his vision a lone figure in the roadway, arm upraised to hurl a brass sphere, people running away, two bobbies rushing toward him, and the first bullet striking him. The rush of images vanished as he fell.
Then the Zephyr lurched as the road itself seemed to buck beneath it. Windows cracked, but the reinforced glass did not shatter. Then the vehicle was back under control and speeding along even faster.
Folkestone knew they had yet again escaped death. And yet, at the moment he only thought of her soft skin, the smell of her hair.
He opened his eyes and saw her looking at him. Their faces were mere inches from each other. When he had first met Lady Cynthia years ago, Folkestone had considered her eyepatch a blemish on a face that was otherwise rather pretty, but he had come to accept it. Now, however, closer to her than he had ever been before, her scent dancing upon the air between them, her red lips slightly parted to reveal perfect teeth, the skin of her arms silky beneath his protecting hands, the sounds of her quick breaths in his ears, he saw the ebony eyepatch not as a detraction, or even as a trait to be accepted or rejected by him or anyone, but as a part of who she was, a woman of courage, intellect and great beauty.
They heard a muffled sound beneath them.
They remained caught in a timeless moment.
“I…can’t…bloody…breathe!”
Folkestone and Lady Cynthia shot upward simultaneously, both flushing deeply.
Sergeant Hand greedily gulped in a deep lungful of air.
“I’m terribly sorry, Sergeant Hand!” Lady Cynthia cried.
“Sorry, old chap.” Folkestone muttered.
Hand looked from one to the other, then back, but both of them were staring dead straight ahead like a couple of shop-window props. He would have shook his head, but he had had more than enough movement for one day. He loved both these humans dearly, but he knew they were they were the two most stubborn people in the Solar System, and maybe blind to boot. He also knew one other thing now – the meeting with the big-hats could bloody well wait until he got out of the nearest loo.
The man from Intelligence was back in the vehicle, but had not returned his weapon to its holster. Despite what had happed, he remained as cool as an autumn morning.
Inspector Kirby was talking into a mobile speaking-disc. He finished his report and returned the instrument to its place on the fascia panel. He looked to the passengers, his features grim.
“The Yard is moving in to contain and control, hopefully to catch any confederates that anarchist had,” Inspector Kirby said.
The three passengers glanced at each other covertly, but said nothing to contradict the Inspector.
The Zephyr turned sharply into a heavily guarded entrance, then sped down a dim tunnel leading downward.
“One of our less publicised entrances,” the Inspector said.
The Zephyr braked sharply in a bright-lit bay near a heavy metal door. The Intelligence agent climbed out and opened the rear door. Inspector Kirby stayed with the driver. Folkestone looked back at the two.
“This is as far as Mickey and I go, Captain.” Inspector Kirby said. “There are probably more things I don’t want to know than I don’t need to know. Cheerio!”
After they unloaded the dispatch cases from the shrapnel-scarred boot, the motor vanished down a diverging tunnel.
“This way please,” the agent said, speaking for the first time with a voice distinguished by a soft burr.
As they neared the door, it opened and two men who were obviously fellow agents stepped out and approached.
“Please wait here a moment, gentlemen, m’lady.”
The three agents conferred briefly, then returned to their three charges.
“Due to the attack upon us, the venue of the meeting has been changed,” their escort said. “Please so good as to accompany Agents Meservy and Blake, and comply w
ith all security protocols.”
Folkestone nodded his assent.
“Thank you for all…” Lady Cynthia started to say.
“That’s all right, m’lady,” he interrupted with a wan smile. “It goes with the job.”
Folkestone took two of the cases, Hand the other, and they followed the two agents through the metal door. It closed behind them with a solid thunk. They were led through yet another guarded entrance, then into a marble corridor inclining sharply downward. Hand, now feeling the motions of the past several hours catching up with him, looked about the featureless passage with a measure of anxiety.
“Say, fellows, I don’t mean to slow us down any,” Hand said, “but is there a chance we have time to stop and…well, a quick stop in the necessary would be greatly appreciated.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Blake replied, “but there are no…facilities in this part of the structure.”
“Besides, we are rather in a hurry, sir,” Meservy added. “You will have the opportunity once we are on the train.”
“Train?”
Folkestone shrugged in response to Hand’s sharp glance.
“What bloody train?” Hand exclaimed.
Neither agent explained, and their expressions disinclined Hand from pursuing further. They passed through another steel door into what appeared to be a tube station.
The streamlined bullet-like train pulling to the platform was like no train any of them had ever seen before.
“Crikey!” Hand exclaimed. “Where are the wheels?”
“Classified, sir,” Meservy growled. “On board, please.”
The door closed with a pneumatic hiss, Blake muttered into a speaking-disc, and the train shot away from the station like the bullet it resembled, causing them to grasp any object for support. Folkestone clutched a brass post, and Lady Cynthia found herself holding his arm, which she loosed as soon as she steadied herself. The Sergeant dropped the case at the first brutal motion. With one hand he held a brass rail in a death grip while his other was pressed to his stomach.
“Oi, mate!” he snapped at Meservy. “Where’s the flipping loo on this express to hell?”
Meservy pointed.
Hand fled.
The agents conducted their charges to comfortable wing-chairs and showed them how to thread and secure the straps. The darkness through which they hurtled was unrelieved by even the smallest light.
“Where are we going?” Lady Cynthia asked.
Blake smiled. “I’m sorry, m’lady, but that information must remain confidential.”
Folkestone smiled. “You do realise who her father…”
Lady Cynthia shot him a sour glance.
“Yes, of course, the Admiral is the reason Lady Cynthia has been asked to attend,” Blake explained. “She has been appointed envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary representing the Office of the Admiralty on Mars in this matter.”
Frowning, Folkestone looked toward Lady Cynthia, but she merely smiled slightly, resting her chin on her fist. Or, rather, that was all he thought she did – the faint sneer and the wrinkling of her nose might have been nothing more than a trick of the light, maybe.
Sergeant Hand returned from his errand.
“Feeling better, Sergeant?” Folkestone asked.
“Better, sir?”
“You look a little less…well, green.”
Hand gave his superior officer an innocent lamby stare. “I am sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“Pay Captain Folkestone no mind, Sergeant” Lady Cynthia said. “He seems out of sorts today.”
Folkestone looked from one to the other, but both ignored him, studiously. With a soft snort he settled back in the chair to enjoy the remainder of the journey on a train the agents refused to talk about to a destination they were not at liberty to disclose. Between that rock-stubborn Martian and that infuriating woman he sometimes wondered if he knew anything at all.
With nothing in the stygian tunnel to provide a point of reference, it was difficult to gauge their velocity, but Folkestone reckoned it must be near a hundred miles per hour. If not more. In less than ten minutes, the train began to brake sharply, attended by a slight shudder. Folkestone sat straight, alert and fumbling at his restraints.
“Do not be alarmed, Captain,” Blake explained. “Please stay strapped in till the train comes to a halt. The braking is by means of a forward blast of super-heated steam, so…”
Meservy glanced at his partner sharply.
Blake sighed. “They’ll hear the rush. Better they know…”
Meservy shrugged.
The remainder of his words were lost in a sudden roar of steam at the front of the train. Had not Blake prepared him for the action, Folkestone would have thought the train’s boilers had burst. The retarding blast of steam brought the transport to an almost instant halt, and for the first time he realised everything in the compartment was securely bolted in place. The train had stopped, he had stopped, but he felt as if his stomach had travelled a bit farther.
Sergeant Hand groaned softly.
Folkestone smiled.
“Please grab all your belongings and sprightly step this way please,” Meservy said.
Blake and Meservy led them out the train’s pneumatic door and onto a platform with a tiled floor and marble columns supporting a ceiling of concentric rings. There was nothing to show where in, or out, of London they were, no sign or opening to the outer world. Since their entire journey had apparently been underground, it was likely they were still far beneath the surface, but even that might be an unwarranted assumption.
“Ah, Captain Folkestone and Lady Cynthia, you’ve arrived,” said a man in a dark suit. He looked at the Martian. “And you must be Sergeant Hand?”
“Aye, what of it?” Hand demanded testily.
“Sergeant,” Folkestone warned softly.
“That’s all right, Captain,” the man said. “From what I’ve been told, the three of you have had quite a journey of it, but you especially, Sergeant.”
Hand nodded. “Not been a picnic, you might say.”
“Quite,” the man agreed. “My name is Carstairs and I am to conduct you to the meeting.”
Folkestone and Lady Cynthia nodded and started after him.
Hand glanced to the agents waiting by the train.
“This is as far as we are authorised to go,” Blake explained.
Meservy smiled. “Don’t worry, Sergeant, we’ll keep the train right here…for a smooth ride back.”
Sergeant Hand grit his teeth, growled, but said nothing. He trotted to catch up with the others.
A frosted glass panel slid open at their approach.
“It’s rather new,” Carstairs explained, seeing their interest. “A device above the doorway radiates low level aether waves on both sides; when a person breaks the wave patterns, pneumatic valves open and close the doors, controlled by steam actuators.”
Quite a handy little jimcrack, for those to lazy to open a bloody door for themselves! thought Sergeant Hand, though he wisely kept his sentiment to himself, for once.
Eventually they entered an office staffed by a young woman who looked at the three visitors, comparing them to photographs she had received less than a hour earlier from the Ministry. Carstairs looked at her expectantly, and at a nod of assent conducted the three to a green baize door.
“Please go on in,” Carstairs instructed. “The others should be already assembled.”
“You are not…” Lady Cynthia started to say.
“No, this is as far as I go,” the official replied. “Afterwards, I will see to whatever needs the three of you have. But, for now, step sprightly, please.”
On the other side of the green baize door was a small bare room panelled with dark wood, and another door, guarded by a dark-skinned grim-eyed Marine armed with a Lee-Enfield steam-repeater at the ready and two Webley-Fosbery automatic revolvers in leather holsters decorated with Maori designs. At they approach and under his consta
nt glare, he allowed them to pass.
The conference room beyond was panelled in teak with brass fittings, the walls mostly decorated with tasteful oils of bucolic British landscapes, but also present was James McNeill Whistler’s famous Syrtis Major at Dusk, one of Sergeant Hand’s favourites. The room’s lighting came from soft gaslamps.
A score of people sat around a table, a few in uniform, most not. Though Captain Folkestone knew only a couple of attendees by reputation, and Sergeant Hand none at all, Lady Cynthia seemed to know everyone personally, except for a silent little man who was introduced to them as Professor Early of the British Museum. On the table before the Professor was a large object entirely hidden by a dark cloth draped over it.
As the meeting got underway and the information fragments held by all were pieced together to form a very disturbing whole, various theories were bandied as explanations for the nature of the conspiracy against the Empire and its ultimate aim. Folkestone and the others who had just arrived from Venus were quite dismayed to discover the favoured interpretation was political in nature, with the villains of the piece alternately portrayed as anarchists, nationalistic separatists, pan-national despots, opportunistic cultists, or an “extra-national army operating at the whims of a madman.”
While they were eager for Folkestone’s insights and the information gathered by Lady Cynthia through her contacts, they did not give any credence to, or even particularly want to hear about monster-gods of ancient Mars, sinister shadows spreading outward from dimensions beyond the three familiar ones, or the sentient beings of the Solar System enslaved and terrorized by ethereal creatures that gorged themselves upon blood and fear. As far as Sergeant Hand’s detailed and logical narrative of cultists serving the reality of the Dark Gods and his foray into the parallel worlds glimpsed under the influence of dream-spice, they all listened politely, some even took notes, but none wanted to believe in realities other than this one. As Hand finished his narrative, Folkestone patted his shoulder reassuringly, but Hand was looking at Professor Early, who alone had followed the Martian’s account with rapt attention.
“Well, certainly one of the more perplexing aspects of this situation is the significance of dream-spice,” said Mr Fairlight, of the Prime Minister’s Office, “but I fail to see…”
Shadows Against the Empire (Folkestone & Hand Interplanetary Steampunk Adventures Book 1) Page 20