She wanted information about the scale of Timmons’ activities and any of his colleagues. Meanwhile Maliha would take steps to eliminate Timmons completely. That was the word she had used: “eliminate”. Françoise assumed Maliha meant to kill him. She was certainly angry enough to do so, though Françoise was not sure how Maliha could possibly achieve that without any form of weaponry. After all, she was not actually a goddess.
She was deep in thought as she walked into the next chamber and found herself staring at the back of a man bent over some instruments. She froze.
He had not noticed her entrance and continued to study a panel of dials. He tapped one and sighed. He stood up straight and turned. His shock at seeing Françoise surpassed her surprise at walking in on him.
“Who in God’s name are you?” He tensed, though Françoise could not tell whether that was because he expected to be attacked or because he was going to attack her.
“Pardon?” Françoise crinkled her brow in a semblance of confusion and attempted to look as innocent as possible. “Je suis perdu. Je cherche Monsieur Timmons.”
He frowned as he looked her up and down. Françoise had completely forgotten she was in men’s clothes. That did not work very well with the helpless female approach. The next door was closed. He was on his own, probably only an engineer and not a guard.
So she fainted.
ix
The air-dock in which the ship had landed possessed doors that completely excluded the atmosphere of Venus. The entire space looked big enough to accommodate a vessel of considerable size, at least five times the length of the one that had brought her. The lenses over her eyes made everything so dark it was difficult to make out any details at a distance.
She wondered briefly whether Françoise had been able to follow. The storms would probably make it almost impossible. She shook her head a little as she descended to the deck. She had her walking stick and leaned on it, although there was no need in the light gravity.
They crossed the deck between two other vehicles of a similar design to hers; on one was painted a heraldic lion and on the other, a unicorn running. She frowned and turned back to look at the vessel they had left; it too had a symbol, a stylised sun with eight flames. She shook her head. It meant nothing. She noted several other smaller vessels sitting on the deck. It was a pity she had never learnt to fly else she could have escaped in one, perhaps.
The walls and ceiling glinted at her as she moved. She recognised the hexagonal crystalline structure as resembling quartz, but these crystals were so much larger. Each was at least three feet in diameter, extending from the floor to heights of thirty or forty feet. It was as if they were in some subterranean cavern rather than floating thousands of feet above the ground.
The crystal walls were interlaced with rooms hacked from the rock and panelled with the ubiquitous granite-wood.
They passed into a corridor. She reached out and touched the crystal. It was warm to the touch and slick like oil, though it left no residue. And, if she was not mistaken, it possessed an electric quality.
It was as Sellie had said, a form of rock with the power of a Faraday grid, yet much finer in resolution, hence providing a vastly improved barrier against gravity itself.
Though she had been unable to see the mountain from the outside, she knew that it must possess rotors and thrusters of enormous size to keep it aloft and propel it from place to place, which meant it must be supplied with power to drive them. Water was plentiful, so they would just need something to boil it.
This told her three things: They had a level of industry sufficient to build the machines; they had a production and transportation capacity to keep them supplied with fuel; and Timmons had monstrous arrogance to engage in such a level of conspicuous waste. He must possess an arrogance that exceeded all the fools of Christendom combined.
Good.
They proceeded along the passage. There were junctions here and there leading off who knew where. She sighed inwardly. The place was enormous—how could she possibly bring it to ruin?
Her friends were right. She was impulsive, reckless and her plans were half-baked. In this instance the plans had not even been given time to rise. She had no idea how she could possibly succeed. There would be no cavalry to rescue her at the last minute.
Finally they reached a pair of double doors. Again these were far bigger than they had any right to be. They were constructed from wood and had been carved with intricate patterns that were reminiscent of the Doric style but included the same sun symbol as the ship. So he saw himself as a Roman? An emperor perhaps? The Sun itself?
She was stopped several yards from the doors while her escort went forward and used an electrical signalling apparatus located in a hatch by the door. She did not attempt to see what he was doing; his body hid his actions and escape was not something she was seriously considering.
From a corridor behind there was a murmuring of voices. Someone laughed and she heard the words “the old walrus” quite distinctly. It was drowned out by more laughing.
She sighed. Why would people here not consider themselves the normal ones? They were privileged and served a man of great power. They might not even know of his murderous machinations.
Her eyes were sore from the lenses and they watered constantly. Tears dribbled slowly down her cheeks.
A grinding sound and the pumping of machinery filled the air. The doors swung back, inward. The chamber within was brightly lit, with electric lamps in the form of multiple chandeliers hanging from a high ceiling.
She frowned—the place looked wrong. Her escort gestured for her to enter. She moved forward, using the stick as if she had no choice. The floor of the hall was a chequerboard of huge white and black slabs, and columns flanked the walls. She could not determine the length of the hall. It looked very long indeed.
At the far end a massive dais rose from the floor and atop it was—to make no bones about it—a throne with a giant man sitting in it. The pedestal was flanked at floor level by two other chairs and, again, these were occupied by huge men.
Incongruously, they all wore simple but well-tailored suits. In a hall of such majesty and grandeur she would have not been surprised by royal robes of ermine and crowns on their heads.
She stopped inside the doors and heard the machinery closing them behind her. They closed with a thunderous crash that echoed through the chamber. The room still did not look right, how could Timmons be a giant? Assuming that was him. She put her head on one side and squinted at the chandeliers. They were very large but the further ones looked curiously distorted as if they were bigger.
Optical illusion. She hid her laugh with a cough. The whole room was constructed to appear to have parallel walls and a flat floor. Instead it closed in on itself and made the furniture and the individuals at the far end appear to have enormous size.
Trickery, illusion. Smoke and mirrors.
Mirrors? The Looking Glass again.
She could also play games. She walked forwards, counting the chequerboard squares.
x
An elegant collapse to the floor was easily achieved in low gravity, and Françoise was not even bruised. As she hit the floor she thrust her hand into her pocket. She affected a low moan, closed her eyes and went limp.
The fellow would either realise she was a woman or he would think her a womanly man. Either way, he would no longer see her as a threat. She lay there with her eyes shut, willing him to come and examine her.
To calm herself she counted frog men.
She reached ten and had heard no movement. She was wondering whether she dared open her eyes when a shadow crossed them. Curiosity must have got the better of him. She could hear his breathing now. It came closer; he must have crouched. She moaned and rolled slightly to free the hand in her pocket.
The man touched her cheek—one might wonder what that was expected to achieve—and then tapped it in some ineffectual attempt to revive her. She rewarded him by fluttering her eyelids and the
n opening them a little.
He was close enough that he could not see what she was doing with her hand.
She smiled gently. “Merci, monsieur,” she said in her most alluring tones. He smiled back. She moved her small gun to his belly. “But now, step away or I will be forced to shoot you. And please”, she added, “do not make any movement that might arouse my suspicions because that too may result in your death.”
The smile on his face was replaced by fear. She watched him carefully as he stood and moved back. His eyes flicked to her hand, as if to satisfy himself her threat was not empty.
“Please put your hands in the air, also.”
He complied. Françoise pushed herself up into a kneeling position, never taking her eyes from him and keeping the gun pointed in his direction. She stood.
“That is excellently done, monsieur. Now, if you will remove your belt and then take out the laces from your boots, we can proceed in ensuring you do not meet with a fatal accident.” He did as he was told. Françoise used the laces to tie his wrists behind his back and used the belt to tie his ankles to a very cold pipe.
There was a movement behind her and Reggie appeared. He was moving with slow steps and using his arm to balance himself against the wall. He really did have the appearance of a frog. His eyes did not protrude, but they were large.
“So you are recovered?”
Françoise caught her prisoner staring wide-eyed at Reggie. She knelt and planted the gun against his temple. She had his full attention.
“Why do you stare?”
He glanced at Reggie and stuttered his reply. “You have it trained.”
“Trained?” she said. “Yes, it is, and why does that surprise you?”
“They are ignorant beasts.”
“This is a particularly clever one.”
Maliha wanted her to gather information; this was very valuable. She stood, pleased with herself. “Come along, Reggie.”
She headed for the door but came to a stop when she heard a thump and a weak cry. She did not want to turn. Reggie, now fully recovered it seemed, moved past her. There was something liquid and red on his hands. Françoise went to the door before she looked back.
The engineer lay unmoving. His eyes were open and blood leaked with inexorable slowness from his temple.
When she turned back to the door Reggie was in front of her.
“Why?” she breathed.
Reggie moved his shoulders in a manner that so resembled a shrug it could be nothing else. “Dey not know.”
It took Françoise a moment before she understood his meaning. It horrified her. She hoped that Reggie would not decide she was his enemy. And also that they would not meet anyone else. It was not that she was squeamish, but to be defenceless and then killed in such an offhand way had no ... honour?
However, they did not meet anyone else. She explained to Reggie where she wanted to go and he led the way. Sometimes he would stop for a several seconds, sometimes a minute, then he would move on and she did not know why. It was almost as if he could see around corners. On one occasion when Reggie stopped, she heard murmuring voices echoing along the crystal corridor. After a few moments he backtracked and led her a different way.
They climbed some stairs and walked along a smoothly cut passage that stretched for two hundred metres. There were no doors on either side, but there was an opening on the right about halfway.
Reggie flattened himself to the floor and squirmed his way past the gap. Once he was past it he stood and waited for her. He did not make any sign, but Françoise assumed he wanted her to do the same. She got onto her knees and crawled.
When she reached the opening she saw a set of steps leading down from the gap, with benches on either side like an auditorium. It was a huge hall and she could see Roman-style pillars on the other side.
A voice echoed from within. “Miss Anderson, welcome to my humble eyrie.”
Françoise froze. She wanted to look. She needed to look.
Reggie gestured at her, another very human mannerism carrying urgency and concern.
Maliha’s voice floated clearly through the air. “It is very impressive.” Then she coughed and the coarse sound echoed through the room.
Hearing her speak pushed Françoise into action. She moved forward to the safety beyond the gap and stood. She flattened herself against the wall and edged to the opening. She peered out, moving as slowly as she could.
There was a double door at the end of the room; a black and white criss-cross pattern on the floor closed inward as she moved forward until Maliha came into view. She looked like an old woman, leaning on her walking stick with her head down and the sari covering it.
“You brought me here, Timmons,” she said. “What are you going to do with me?”
“How many friends have you lost, Miss Anderson?”
“Do you mean how many have you had murdered?”
There was no response from the other end. Françoise waited.
“I have lost too many people,” she said.
Françoise almost laughed out loud. Maliha had not answered his question. She was playing with him. Perhaps she had a plan after all.
“And does it hurt, Miss Anderson?”
“Why?” she said. “Is the pain of others the only thing you can experience?”
“Not at all,” he said. “I merely wished to demonstrate to my colleagues how thoroughly you have been brought down.”
“Valentine, the Spencers—though they were hardly friends—Françoise, Constance Mayberry. What have they ever done to you that you should make them suffer?”
“Now, now, Constance Mayberry she is not dead,” he paused. “Though she will be when the law catches up with her, since her husband lies poisoned by her hand.”
“What?” Maliha sounded genuinely hurt and angry. “You did this even though you already had me?”
Reggie pulled at Françoise’s sleeve, distracting her. She turned and put her hand to her lips. Reggie almost climbed her arm to get his mouth to her ear. For a moment she thought he was attacking her.
“Child,” he hissed into her ear.
She screwed up her face. “What?”
“She child.”
Realisation struck Françoise like a thunderbolt.
xi
Maliha tried to focus on the game she was playing here. Was she trying to get information or bring about Timmons’ death? Both, really, and the latter option was still vague. He would be absolutely certain he was in control; it was time to chip pieces out of his confidence.
“Which square am I standing on, Timmons?” demanded Maliha.
“What?” said Timmons.
One of the other men stood up. “What’s she going on about, Terry?”
“Nothing, Jeremy, she’s a woman. You can’t expect any sense from her.”
Maliha raised her voice. “You didn’t answer my question, Timmons.”
“That’s because you weren’t asking anything intelligent.” He laughed and the other two men joined in, though Maliha felt their participation was forced.
“Your associates don’t share you confidence, Timmons,” she said. “They’re worried. You bring me into this great hall of yours, with its tricks to make people feel small,” —in fact, since the optical illusion would work in reverse, she probably did look small to them—“but I am not cowed, Terence Timmons.”
“You are irrelevant.”
“Is that why you spent so much energy on bringing me here?” She barked out a laugh. “Why did you not just have me killed? It would have been easy enough. Although,” she paused for effect, “even a fall from a Voidship failed to kill me.”
“You were lucky,” he said. “And your William Crier was dealt with afterwards. You have been amusing to toy with, but you have no significance.”
“Why?” she said. “Because you think I cannot stop you and your friends from dominating the Earth?”
Then he really did laugh. It was so genuine Maliha felt her blood run cold.
How wrong was she?
“Your mistake, Miss Anderson,” he said and climbed to his feet, “is in thinking we do not already control it.” He paused. “Are you not going to ask me how that can be?”
But she already knew. Once he had claimed it, she had raced ahead and grasped it in all its detail. He was not planning any sort of invasion—he had no need of it. Still, the longer she kept him talking the more he might reveal. “How can that be?”
“Trade,” he said and, though she was not looking at his face and she continued to keep her face down, she knew the smile he had. She had seen it in every man who was happy to demonstrate his superiority. “My associates and I—”
“The East India Company.”
“We were that once and hold that title to remember our heritage,” he said. “But we are so much more now. We control more wealth than any nation of the Earth. We stand above presidents, kings and emperors. We have the power to do anything we wish.”
“It’s not enough though, is it?”
There was a moment of silence that stretched into seconds.
“You like to play chess, Timmons,” she said. “That’s what this was, wasn’t it? A game where you had every move covered. Where nothing I could do would change the final outcome.”
“It has been a diversion,” he said. “But hardly chess, more like dangling a fish on a line and waiting for it to tire before reeling it in and smashing its head on a stone.”
Behind his words she could feel the cold of complete dissociation, as if he no longer considered others to be real. When you could fulfil your slightest whim, what remained? Only the inflicting of pain, because all you can feel is the agony of others. He expected her to suffer.
“On the contrary, Timmons,” she said. “It is chess. After all, look where I am standing.”
He laughed again, but there was uncertainty there. “Raving again. No wonder women belong in Bedlam.”
“Count them, Timmons. What square from the door am I standing on?”
Under the Burning Clouds Page 26