Thorp reached for a Mule’s Kick. “You…can leave that behind,” Wellington said.
“But it’s standard issue, sir,” he protested.
“It still needs field testing. Particularly in lessening recoil.”
Strickland, struggling under the weight of four boxes of different lengths and sizes, appeared in the stairwell. “I’m going to have to assemble the ElectriFlux whist on the way, I’m afraid.”
“This,” Wellington began, motioning to all the boxes, “is portable?”
“Portable, by the broadest definition,” Agent Strickland said. The main box of this “portable” array was about five feet long, looked rather heavy, and had a long, thick cable running out of one end. It was not exactly the most inconspicuous of devices, but that was nothing compared with the antenna, also about five feet long and comprised of long pieces of intersecting metal. It looked rather as if a metallic tree had gone quite mad.
“Right then!” came Thorp’s voice from behind him. Wellington turned to look at the clerical agent who was stuffing Firestarters in his coat pockets. He then threw the Mark V over his shoulder and snapped to Wellington a quick, polished salute.
This is not going to be easy, Wellington realised, grabbing the last Ricky and stuffing it in his coat pocket. “I suppose we can hail a carriage of some fashion.”
“No need for a rickshaw, sir,” Strickland said. “There is a horseless carriage downstairs we can use.” She shifted the boxes in her arms and huffed. “A good thing, too, as we won’t have to trawl the streets of Bombay with these things.”
The quaint, old-fashioned name did not give Wellington much hope of high technology, but it was better than the alternative. Walking the streets of the city with a disassembled ElectriFlux would probably get them killed within one block of the office. The parts alone would fetch a few pennies, to be certain. “Very well then,” he said, taking a few of the smaller boxes from their precarious balance in Agent Strickland’s arms. “Let’s see what we have.”
They crossed to Director Maulik’s private lift and rode it back down to the main street level. At least, that was where Wellington believed them to be headed. Thorp flipped two switches attached to the Chadburn, and an alarm buzzed for a few seconds. Their lift reached Ground Floor, and then continued descending. A dimly lit corridor slipped into view, and on reaching this subterranean floor the lift came to a stop. The grate doors collapsed away to reveal a massive garage space illuminated by electrical lights set in the opposing walls. It could easily have housed half a dozen motor cars, or two larger trucks if required. Instead of larger transports or a collection of smaller motorcars, however, this garage housed at this present moment one very odd looking “horseless carriage,” which, by design, was an insult to carriages and horses everywhere. Wellington felt now a real pang for the Ares, as he struggled to conclude if it was a small bus, motorcar, tractor, or some unholy conjoining of all three, covered in what looked like metallic warts all over its posterior. If there were any plans for them to arrive inconspicuously, this gigantic, combustion-powered beetle ruined that possibility.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Strickland said, still fighting to keep the ElectriFlux box off the ground. “Designed to cover all terrains, armoured for combat, and enough weapons to take on a small army.”
“Rest assured, Agent Books, the Bug could give those House of Usher blokes quite a go,” Thorp said, the tone of admiration evident in his voice.
“The bug?” Wellington asked.
“The Bombay Bug. That’s what we christened her. Director Smith usually takes her out at night for a shakedown, but never on official business for Her Majesty.”
“I call the back seat,” Strickland shouted, making Wellington start. “I’ll need room to set up the ElectriFlux.”
“I’ll stoke the boilers,” Thorp said, giddy as a bride on her nuptial day.
The Bombay Bug measured about double the size of the Ares. It had treads running down its latter-half, and as the back was mercifully covered, Strickland could rebuild the ElectriFlux in privacy. The closer Wellington drew to it, though, he could see grooves across its bumpy dome. Perhaps there was a way from the driver’s seat to retract it, much like a beetle’s shell parts to allow for flight. If they were in fact running into another clash with the Ghost Rebellion, the Bombay Bug might be useful in providing some cover.
Wellington passed the boxes in his arms to Strickland and then climbed up into the driving seat, wincing as he plopped into it. The interior was bare, shafts and levers exposed, very little padding on the iron seat. Once Wellington had levered the door shut—which closed with a thunk that could be either regarded as very comforting, or very frightening—the driver and passenger side formed a fully surrounded shell, the only opening being in front of Wellington where a windshield would be. His own Ares was a luxury vehicle compared to this. Mounted just above his head was a wide mirror that allowed Wellington the ability to see Agent Strickland in the back seat, diligently reconstructing the ElectriFlux.
Gauges jumped to life. The Bug shuddered and rumbled. Thorp then slid up to the passenger side and gave Wellington a nod as his own door slammed shut.
Modern conveniences such as a steering wheel were apparently considered extravagant, as the Bug had only installed a more primitive tiller system similar to the rare motor cars he learned to operate in the military. The sequences and rhythms he knew were locked away inside him. He pushed a lever to his right and…
“Well,” Thorp said, checking his collection of weapons, “are we underway or waiting for the occurrence to come to us?”
He looked over to Strickland, inspecting a component from her ElectriFlux as if she had never seen it before. If I were Axelrod or Blackwell working on this monster, where would I put the accelerator? Wellington looked to his left and found a crank wheel. He began turning it towards him, and after a few revolutions something growled underneath them. The Bug lurched then, slowly lumbering forward. Thrusting aside ideas of examining the workings under the bonnet, he set himself the task of getting to the docks at all speed, recalling how motor cars operated in Africa but thinking about how eccentric clankertons designed their contraptions. Getting out of the underground garage proved more than a little challenging, but Wellington managed it with no small amount of frustrated facial expressions that he was glad his fellow agents could not see from where they were sitting.
The Bug made small chugging and clitter-clack-clickity-clack noises all around him. In his peripheral, plenty of interesting things underfoot were happening. His curiosity was begging for him to switch his concentration from the busy Indian street to the engineering feat before him. No time to look now, he reminded himself again. And again.
Heads turned. Rickshaws, carriages, and the odd motorcar swerved to avoid them. While there was rarely a time in the streets of Bombay that did not see a crowd or crush of people, it would take a great deal for said crowd or crush to stop and gawk. Which was exactly what they were doing right now.
“Right or left?” Wellington asked over his shoulder.
Strickland swung the antenna up and outward. “Go right, and I’ll see if we can triangulate a more precise point-of-origin from there.”
Whatever was coming, it was taking a good amount of power to create it. This imitation æthergate would have to be massive. Would it be as equally deadly in its side effects?
“You want a bearing south,” she said, readjusting knobs and flipping switches that earned her a spark or two from the connections, “but this reading is bloody insane.”
Now trundling on a southerly direction, the Bug was moving at a nice clip. However, it was impossible to enjoy the ride as Wellington struggled against its hair-trigger responses. The transport’s multi-directional capacity by design took all of his wits to keep the metal monster in check.
“Turn right-turn right-TURN RIGHT!” Strickland shouted as she swung the antenna back and forth, threatening to bean Wellington with it. “HERE!”
/> Wellington gave a high-pitched yelp as a group of schoolgirls wrapped in fuchsia saris and a lean, English schoolmarm suddenly appeared in front of them, making a mad dash to cross the street. The Bug jostled and pitched as it crashed through the corner of a building before returning to the open street.
“Told you to turn right,” Strickland said.
“Do we have an exact point for the event horizon?” Wellington asked, glancing back at her.
“Definitely the army base at the port. Has to be. The port narrows down to almost nothing down there.”
The words “army base” hit Wellington like a brick to the stomach, and he hoped that Maulik had received their message. If this was the Ghost Rebellion and support did not come in time, Wellington feared it might be a blood bath. A very quick and costly blood bath.
As he piloted the Bug around the main railway station and pointed its blunt, rounded nose towards the sea, the ElectriFlux actually let out a squawk that made Wellington start in his uncomfortable seat.
“Sorry, sir!” Agent Strickland leaned into the cabin and practically yelled in Wellington’s ear. “Didn’t know the damn thing did that!”
“Why did it do that?” he asked.
“All readings are peaking. We’re here.”
“I would dare say so,” he replied, his hands shoving the Bug’s levers into their original positions.
They came to a halt before a fine four-storey building made of beige and cream stone. The words “Army & Navy” emblazoned on the outside silently begged to make this fine piece of architecture a target. To their right was a general store, while to the left was a modest travel plaza. Two airships were floating over the harbour, but luckily none were tethered to the ground. A cargo ship was secured by the dock. No movement visible either on or off the vessel.
That could change, however, at any moment.
Wellington scrambled out of the pilot’s seat, drawing the Maverick, which, depending on the size of the portal, would have been as effective as a butter knife at the siege of Harfleur. He heard the slam of another iron hatch and Thorp joined him, gripping tight the Mark V. Around them, soldiers—the ones not staring at them or their strange, armoured transport—were going about their day. Some going into the store, some chatting outside, others unloading a lorry parked just in front of the Bug. In short, where the Army & Navy building stood, was a hub for the military to distribute vital supplies, and where officers could buy the luxuries denied to enlisted men. Presently it was not the scene of an attack.
That did not mean it wasn’t a target.
A groan came from the rear of the Bug, and Agent Strickland emerged with the central gauge of the ElectriFlux mounted on a small club. Extending from all points of the gauge and its housing were antennae of all makes and configurations.
“This is the place, no question,” Strickland said under her breath as she joined them. “The accuracy of the device is only a hundred feet or so. We’ll have to rely on our eyes.”
Agent Thorp slipped the rifle over his shoulder and drew his Rickies, totally oblivious to the scattering of soldiers that noticed his weapons. “Let them come. We’ll show ‘em what-for.”
“Very noble, Agent Thorp, but somewhat foolhardy,” chided Wellington. “We—as in the three of us—may have to hope we can keep this attack at bay until reinforcements arrive. This will mean either incredible fortune upon us, or a very quick defencive stance before being overrun.”
“According to the ElectriFlux,” Strickland whispered, scowling as she studied the gauge, “we should be seeing something by now.”
Wellington looked around the courtyard. It was just another afternoon under a blazing sun. “You are certain it was to be the docks?”
“Positive. Unless...”
Oh, how he hated it when clankertons used that word. “Unless?”
True to the form of a complete quack, Strickland was shaking her head whispering things like “No-no-no-no” and “This cannot be correct,” which did little to reassure Wellington things were going in their favour.
“Agent Strickland?” he asked, his polite veneer slipping like sand through the neck of an hourglass.
“My knowledge of æthergates is limited, so I could only go by estimation and hypothesis.” She swallowed. “I may have been wrong.”
Now Thorp turned around to stare at the engineer. “You may have been wrong about the æthergate appearing?”
“No,” she insisted, “the event is happening, and it is happening here.” Strickland now looked around, her eyes darting about as if she were a cornered animal. “I was referencing #18710520UKMG for the ElectriFlux design when I’m thinking, according to these readings, I should have referenced #18960128UKEA for better accuracy.”
Case #18960128UKEA? Was she serious? “That would mean the separatists have...” and then Wellington took a step backward, the sudden chill he felt inside his veins now suddenly tickling his skin, “...an electroporter.”
Wellington almost failed to get the words out as his mouth began to water, and a scent of copper filled the air around them.
Chapter Eight
In Which Agents of the Ministry Make Some Discoveries
“I thought there would be a teashop at least,” Eliza said, as they stood under the awning along with at least ten other people in the middle of the Chor Bazaar. The flow of Hindi around her was beautiful but disconcerting. Eliza had never been stationed in India, so she never learned the language. However, this was Vania’s country, and the New Zealander was comfortable enough letting her lead the way.
Hindi flowed from her lips as she turned to Eliza with a smile. “Believe me, this will be even better.”
An Indian man was standing before a six-foot-tall copper pot which whistled cheerily while liquid burbled and gurgled through it. Eliza could see a bright flame flickering within the pot’s inner workings. Nothing like a teapot, sugar tongs, or a milk jug were in sight, but the aroma coming from the tall pot was very enticing. She detected the odour of ginger, cinnamon, and a host of many other spices she could not identify. As she leaned forward to get a whiff, the pot began to sing. When she jerked back, the crowd around her let out a chorus of laughter, Vania among them. The way she laughed, throwing back her head, was quite different to her sister’s. Ihita had been afraid to show much emotion, at least at work. Was this, Eliza wondered, what my friend had been like in her own country? Masking a twitch of pain, she turned to listen to the song, a high pitched, reedy sound that belted out a jolly rhythm. The men huddled in the stall clapped their hands in time with the music, and Eliza suddenly felt an urge to dance.
“What is this?” Eliza asked Vania.
Vania gestured to the pot. “The pot plays like a pungi—you might have heard a snake charmer playing the instrument. This chai wallah is my favourite in all of Bombay because of this creation, and he made it all with items salvaged from the streets.” She grinned at the man standing proud next to his pot. “I am always telling Maulik we need Harsha in R&D.”
“No, Miss Pujari,” Harsha waved his hand, smiling. “I cannot leave the chai.”
Eliza’s eyebrow shot up at Vania’s casual use of the director’s name. It seemed once out of the office she unwound a fraction.
Her companion sighed heavily and theatrically. “Well then, if I cannot lure you away, perhaps you would be getting my friend and me a cutting chai each.”
Friend. Eliza swallowed hard on that word.
It was like magic how quick the chai wallah moved. Snatching up two clay cups, he poured a full, steaming, frothy mixture into one, right to the brim. Then he slowed down, closed his eyes for just an instant, and tipped a tiny amount onto the edge of the flickering flame.
“An offering to Agni, Lord of fire,” Vania whispered to Eliza. “Now watch.”
Harsha spun around, the full cup in one hand, the empty in the other. Raising the full one above his head, he poured it into the empty one, which he held on a straight arm down by his knees. The cups were sm
all, the height great, and yet Eliza watched amazed as he hit the bottom-most cup without spilling a drop. He repeated this trick twice more, and managed to split the full cup evenly between the two.
Eliza knew her face was ridiculously surprised and took the good-natured laughs around her as Vania paid the chai wallah and guided her out.
Then she sipped the chai itself, and suddenly the performance was the second most impressive thing of the morning. The drink was warm, sweet, milky, and spiced in a way she had never had tea before.
“Wonderful,” she said finally taking her lips from the clay cup. “My assignments in India never allowed me to take in little pleasures like this. Tea perfected by science.”
Vania laughed. “Now Eliza, don’t forget Harsha in the mix. It is a fine line between science and art, but art requires the human touch.”
“Your sister would have said the same thing.” Eliza had no idea why she brought up Ihita, but the words burst from somewhere.
Vania nodded, though her hand tightened on the cup. She did not reply.
All the grace of a wild bull in a china shop, Eliza thought, sipping her chai while she took in the street around her.
The buildings of the Chor Bazaar were not unfamiliar; she would have seen their like in London or any other English town. They were brick and two levels, though some of the embellishments were of more exotic shapes, but that was where the similarities ended. Sounds and smells of all kinds permeated the air. Some stalls offered music and songs of joy, while another stall would make her mouth water at the promise of succulent meats. Merchants, clankertons, and artisans were crowded on both sides of the streets, many of them working diligently on their wares while others employed criers that invited tourists and passers-by to come and watch the makers hard at work. Other booths relied on bright hanging awnings displaying crafts of all measure, from cloth to mechanical, to beckon customers. Eliza did not know where to focus. Red rugs, tables full of jars of spices, baskets of metal parts—it looked like everything was available in this bazaar.
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