The Ghost Rebellion

by Pip Ballantine, Tee Morris

  “They do have that effect on people,” Vania said to Wellington, grinning like hers was fit to crack her face. “Director Smith thought he’d show you the best Indian ingenuity could do.”

  Wellington’s gaze apparently didn’t know where to linger, but he finally recovered the ability to speak. “It’s...it’s magnificent.” Then he blinked. “Wait a moment—Director Smith?”

  The driver slid down a ladder artfully concealed behind one ear, and hooked open the belly of the beast. Inside was a red velvet interior, a pot of tea steaming cleverly secured on a narrow table, and a small slatted window keeping out most of the sun. Vania, Eliza and Wellington climbed in, while Maulik’s chair was attached to a lift and placed inside. The belly closed moments later, and they set off. Even with its odd swaying stride, their magnificent transport was still very smooth.

  Maulik let out what sounded like a satisfied wheeze as he pressed a button on the table, and freed the pot of tea from its base. “These auto-mahots and their creations are the latest thing in Bombay. They may not be fast, but they are comfortable.” He shot a glance at Eliza. “I know you usually prefer fast.”

  Eliza let out a contented sigh. “For the moment I forgive you, Maulik. This is delightful.”

  Wellington was too busy poking the innards of the elephant, muttering equations to himself. He then looked at the teacup on the table, which was remarkably still. “Magnets?”

  “Press the button by the saucer to release it,” Vania said, motioning to the table. “Do not fill your cup too high, though.”

  “Yes,” Maulik said as he filled his own cup halfway, “because you never know when…”

  The elephant lurched suddenly to the right, sliding Eliza into Wellington’s lap. Not that she minded. As if by reflex, her hand darted under her jacket and drew one of the pounamu pistols.

  “…that will happen,” Maulik said, returning the pot to the table with a hard thunk as the magnet took hold. “You can holster the weapon, Eliza,” he said, with a low, soft chuckle. “It’s not an attack, just the dreadful state of the roads.”

  She took her seat again and smiled. “I guess that whole affair with the Maestro and the Department has made me rather jumpy.”

  Wellington squeezed her hand, just for a moment, throwing aside protocol. He then tried his very best to draw attention away from her mistake, but in an entirely inappropriate direction.

  “So, Director Smith, how have you been managing—” Wellington began.

  “Really, Wellington?” Eliza said with a roll of her eyes. “I don’t think that is a question you should be—”

  He arched an eyebrow as his eyes locked with hers and continued—”with your new duties here at India Branch?”

  Maulik chuckled. “Books, I think you need to spend more time with Eliza here. She can be quite protective of her mates. It’s most endearing.”

  Eliza was now the one blushing. “My apologies, Welly.”

  “No, quite alright,” he replied. “I’m sure you still see me as the newly-appointed field agent bumbling his way across the Americas.”

  “You were a bit clueless when it came to that tart Lovelace,” she muttered.

  “To answer your question,” Maulik interjected, his tinted lenses looking to Wellington, to Eliza, and then back to the archivist, “I am adjusting. Paperwork and administration are hardly my strong suits though.”

  “I can only imagine,” Wellington said, dropping a single cube of sugar into his cup.

  “Stuff and nonsense,” Vania piped up, releasing the teapot and pouring Wellington a safe amount of tea. “Director Smith had R&D design him a weaponised wheelchair.”

  Eliza inclined her head to one side. “What? You mean with his Queensbury Rules housed in one of the armrests?” Vania looked over to Eliza, her smile very sly. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Darjeeling?” Vania offered, pouring Eliza a half-cup’s worth.

  “Maulik!” Eliza snapped. “You were told to slow down! For your health!”

  The director raised a hand in surrender. “Old habits, my friend.” He detached a small tube Eliza never noticed before in his left sleeve and stuck it into the cup. She watched wide-eyed as the tea slowly slipped through the tube and directly into his arm. “I have enjoyed my time working for the Queen. The mission against Methuselah’s Order, seen Hill to the end of Operation Corazón, and of course, the battle with the Maestro himself—if my life as a field agent has taught me anything, it is to be prepared for the unexpected.”

  “But, Maulik, if I may be so bold,” Wellington continued, “why did you not allow Axelrod to fashion mechanical legs for you. They work very well for Eliza’s maid.”

  Eliza screwed her eyes shut. It is his choice, my darling, she thought with a wince.

  “Well, after that brouhaha with the Maestro, I had suffered so much muscle damage that not even Axelrod’s automatronic legs could work. So I decided on an enhanced wheelchair instead.”

  Wellington nodded. “And the intravenous tea delivery system?”

  “That’s Blackwell.” Maulik shrugged. “Little vices.”

  “Ta,” he returned, toasting him with his own teacup.

  Maulik tapped his fingers on his knee. “I take it Doctor Sound is still operating headquarters out of Whiterock?”

  Wellington nodded. “At the moment. With Miggins reduced to rubble, it seemed best. There is a threadbare detachment running a small office in London, but all operational matters are coming from my old home.” He adjusted his glasses. “Once we have settled on a new location I will remain quite busy with reconstituting the archives.”

  That simply wouldn’t do, Eliza thought as she cleared her throat. “Agent Books, you have field status now, and tidying up this Jekyll mess is your first priority.”

  He shot her an almost embarrassed look. “Yes, quite.”

  As Eliza finished her tea—and a delightful brew—their extraordinary vehicle lurched to a stop. Through the window, Eliza observed a rather modest corner building, such as she might have seen lining the River Thames. It bore a rather faded canopy with the words “Miggins Antiquities” just visible. Perhaps it was nostalgia, but she couldn’t help smiling.

  Their mahout opened the belly of their beast, and they descended to the ground. After slipping their driver some coin, Maulik rolled towards the building. “Vania, if you would please escort our guests upstairs. I’ll be taking the lift.”

  “Certainly, sir,” and she gave him a slight tip of her hat.

  They watched as Maulik trundled up the ramp leading to the back of the shop’s gallery, and then Vania motioned for the two of them to the exterior stairs of the building. “The lift was specifically built for Director Smith. There’s only room for one.”

  They followed Vania the rest of the way, and entered the upstairs “Receiving” area of Miggins Antiquities. Looking around, Eliza almost forgot she was in India; the desk and office décor were identical to the former London office. However, at least half the occupants of said desks were Indian, with the rest being made up of either the tanned complexions of British folk who had been on the continent for some time, or the bright pink ones who had obviously only just arrived.

  Eliza silently reminded herself to lotion once she reached her lodgings. Her family were more of the frying variety rather than the tanning.

  “Welcome to India Branch,” Vania said, motioning to the other agents.

  “I knew this area of the Empire was busy, but—” Wellington’s words stopped abruptly, and he even paused mid-step. Eliza always did like watching her walking analytical engine seize up. It reminded her that despite his cleverness he was not without fault. “This office is as large as London’s.”

  Vania gave a slight chuckle. “Well, it is on account of the population, Agent Books. We are kept busy here, as India is a rather big place.”

  “You were expecting the Egypt Branch, Books?” Eliza inquired, with a slight twitch of her lips.

  “Well...yes,” he ad
mitted.

  She patted her lover gently on the back. “Don’t worry, Agent Pujari, despite the antics in America and Europe, I am endeavouring to get him out more.”

  Wellington shot her an unamused look. “You really count our jaunt across Europe as time in the field?”

  “Considering we were running for our lives whilst protecting seven children and a maid? Yes, I do,” Eliza replied tartly.

  Wellington nodded. “Point taken.”

  “So, Agents Books and Braun,” came a mechanical voice from their left. Maulik was now rolling free of the private lift and into an office immediately to one side of him. “If you would follow me?”

  Unlike the luxuries of Dr Sound’s office in Whiterock, Maulik’s office was dramatically different. Mounted on the walls were a variety of weapons and devices Eliza recognised as equipment he once used when out in the field. Instead of a world map, one wall featured a detailed map of India. Magnets depicting different agents on assignment, a device Eliza knew from other offices, decorated the map. Along with reminders of his years in the field and the active cases on the map, his office offered a breathtaking view of the Bombay harbour.

  Perhaps Maulik Smith was uncomfortable with the responsibility of a directorship, but he seemed by all outward appearances to be settling into the position quite well.

  “Have a seat, everyone,” he said to the three of them. As they got comfortable in their chairs, Maulik came to a stop behind his desk. “It’s just so bloody big!”

  “You know how to handle large objects I am sure,” Eliza said, unable to ignore an opportunity to flirt.

  “Enough of that, you wicked lass,” he replied, with a gurgle in his breather. “Oh yes, before I forget…” and he slid a folded paper to her. “From Section P. For Your Eyes Only, Eliza.”

  “What is that?” Wellington asked.

  She shrugged. “Good news, Welly.”

  Wellington crooked an eyebrow.

  “Keeping a promise, as it were,” she assured him. “Good news, have no fear.”

  “So,” Maulik said, capturing their attention once more, “exactly how did your isotope trail lead you to our modest doorstep?”

  Eliza exchanged a glance with Wellington. “We were rather led here.”

  “Last time I saw you both, you were set on the trail of Jekyll,” Maulik said, fixing them with a hard look. “You think the dark doctor has set foot here?”

  “We boarded the African Sunset, following the trail of the isotope,” Eliza said.

  “The isotope is still working, then?” Maulik’s hand twitched on the controls of his chair. “I’ll be buggered. Axelrod and Blackwell actually made something that exceeds expectations.”

  “In a matter of speaking,” Wellington said. “We knew the isotope wouldn’t last for more than a month or two, and as expected, we lost his trail in Madrid. What we had not accounted for was how the isotope somehow infused itself with Jekyll’s sweat glands. At least that is Doctor Blackwell’s theory. Anyone the mad doctor comes into physical contact with is also marked with the isotope,” he said, motioning to the goggles resting on his bowler.

  “A pair of fingerprints on one wrist’s pulse points, and a full hand imprint on Featherstone’s coat sleeve, was all we needed,” Eliza added.

  “Featherstone?” Maulik asked. He glanced over to Vania, and then back to Eliza and Wellington. “Lord Hieronymus Featherstone? He was the one you were tracking?”

  “Yes,” Eliza replied, feeling like there was something about to be dropped on them. She slipped her hand into Wellington’s.

  Maulik ran his hand along the black canvas hood covering his head and then slapped an open palm on his desk. “Damn.”

  A strange silence fell over what had started as a delightful visit to the India Branch. It was, of course, protocol when Ministry agents arrived in other territories to notify head offices just to make them aware—on a “need to know” basis—that operations were underway.

  Maulik’s odd outburst, however, was far from expected.

  Wellington’s hand tightened on hers as he began to speak. “So by that rather colourful proclamation, are we to assume you are familiar with Lord Hieronymus Featherstone?”

  You are, Eliza thought, a delightfully ridiculous man sometimes, my darling.

  Vania cleared her throat. “Lord Featherstone has been supplying us weapons for months. The Ministry, as a courtesy, has also been working with him to see what we can do to aid the Queen’s army in their peacekeeping operations.”

  That was, indeed, a surprise. “Welly, when you introduced yourself formally to Lord Featherstone, he didn’t—”

  “Lord Featherstone acted as if he had never heard of the Ministry,” Wellington stated.

  “Well now,” Maulik said, lightly thrumming his fingertips against the polished surface of his desk, “shall I book for your stay two separate rooms, or a single suite?”

  Eliza didn’t bother to glance at Wellington as she spoke for them both. “Single suite.”

  Interlude

  Wherein the Ministry’s Finest Face Their Greatest Challenge for Crown and Empire

  Life at Whiterock was growing bloody tedious. Watching new recruits run by the back verandah in the freezing rain entertained Agent Bruce Campbell enough on the second, and even third, pass, but dining on their pain and suffering could only sate his appetites for so long. Besides, watching the anguish in their faces was laughable. They had no idea what was ahead, and God help them all when Cassandra Shillingworth got her hooks into them.

  It had only been three weeks since his last mission, and it hadn’t been an easy one by any stretch. Wales might have a reputation for being a little dull, but retrieving the wedding ring of Owain, the Lady of the Fountain, sounded easier than it had actually been. He and Brandon Hill had spent a lot of time running through the wilds of Wales chased by someone he was fairly sure had been some kind of grey lady. Usually Bruce liked ladies, but not when they wanted to rip his flesh from his bones.

  Three weeks at headquarters, though, was threatening to make Bruce go mad with boredom. At first he’d hit the training fields with other agents recuperating from assignments. Weeks of shooting, boxing, and becoming familiar with new technology had finally become dull. Even that bloody karate nonsense that Agent Killian had brought back with her from Japan had ceased to be interesting. When yesterday he walked by the library and seriously considered picking up something to read, Bruce knew this was a sign that the walls of Whiterock were closing in. He had to get out or risk starting a brawl in the dining room just for fun.

  “Well,” Bruce muttered to himself just before taking a sip of his coffee and leaning back in his chair, “I suppose I did make a bit of a cock-up of the Queen’s Jubilee.”

  He grinned. That operation was, indeed, the best of times. In fact, it was operations like the Diamond Jubilee that reminded him exactly why he joined the Ministry. The clean-up, the investigations, and the reconstruction of the Ministry that followed had kept all of them busy. Most veteran agents were training new junior agents in the field who would take the places of the ones killed during Phantom Protocol. The missions were becoming less dangerous, or at least less dangerous than the Diamond Jubilee. Bruce stared out the window into the gloomy Yorkshire weather. He always hated the dull calm following a successful assignment in the field.

  “Bruce!” a familiar voice called out his name from behind him.

  He knew who it was without turning, but did so anyway. Standing in the door of the conservatory, giving him a cheery wave, was Agent Brandon D. Hill. He had with him a bowl of what looked like almonds. Brandon loved almonds, pecans, and all sorts of nuts. You are what you eat, Bruce thought with a smirk.

  They really were a mismatched pair, but somehow the two of them in the field created pure magic. During the Ministry’s reconstruction, Bruce and Brandon had to part ways for a few months in order to take greenhorns out into the field to get mud on their boots. Scenario training and drills were all v
ery well, but there were things that happened on missions that could not be trained for. Field work sometimes demanded improvisation. That wasn’t taught. It was simply experienced.

  The mission in Wales had been just the two of them, and that was a welcome change.

  Bruce took his boots off the table. “Morning, Brandon, how’d you sleep?”

  Capital, he will probably say, Bruce thought. He loves it here at Whiterock.

  “Oh, capital! I love it here at Whiterock!” Brandon said, taking a seat by Bruce. His breath reeked of almonds. “Such a delightful change from Miggins Antiquities. So serene, and what magnificent landscape views.”

  “Country life isn’t for the likes of you and me, mate,” Bruce stated. He polished off his coffee and set it on the small table between them. “Books’ homestead is posh and all, but too much time here would drive me batty. Don’t you think there’s a reason he doesn’t live here himself?”

  “Well, Hebden Bridge is quaint enough. Far from the madding crowd, as it were.” Brandon took in a deep breath and exhaled with delight. “And fresh country air. Good for the bowel movements.”

  Bruce frowned at his partner. “Come again, Hill?”

  “Bowel movements. Why do you think spas and sanitariums are located far outside a city?” Brandon clicked his tongue as he set his snack next to Bruce’s empty cup. “All that smog and soot in the air. Mark my words, those toxins will be the death of the Empire!”

  He knew he would regret asking, but Bruce believed the best way to make a connection with a partner was to understand what was on his mind and how he deduced matters. With Brandon, though, that could be a true descent into madness. He braced himself. “And what exactly does this have to do with bowel movements?”

  “Damn it, man, you should really indulge more in reading the science page of the London News.” Brandon waved his hands madly between his stomach and crotch. “Your bowels are incredibly sensitive to not just what you eat, but your demeanour, your diet, and—yes—the excitements in the very air. As wonderful as London is, all its pollutants aggravate your bowels, causing the toxins in your body to back up.” He was now making fists and slowly wringing them over his stomach. If it were anyone else, Bruce would have told him to stuff it and let him enjoy the silence. But this was Brandon. He wanted to know where he was headed with this fresh slice of insanity. “All that waste backs up and weighs—you—down. But here? In the country?” And he inhaled again, threatening to suck all of the crisp, clean air around them. Bruce hoped he would, as the lack of oxygen would make them both fall to the vapours. “The excitements are pure. You are refreshed. You are relaxed. Ergo...”